“I asked why that was the date you decided to remember. You’re such a pain in the ass sometimes.”
I recoil at the unexpected declaration. I may be ruder than I should be, but Jasper’s been nothing but consideration. I thought he’d call me weird. Awkward. Impolite. “Excuse me?”
He glares at me, lips thin, jaw tense. I should feel bad for upsetting him. We were almost getting along there for a second. But we’re not friends. This isn’t a teambuilding exercise. We’re not forming a Dead Parents Club.
The server comes and deposits Jasper’s nachos and a basket of what I can only assume is the magical deep-fried pickles. I grab one, consider swiping it through the little cup of brown sauce the server didn’t bother identifying when she dropped it off, decide it’s safer not to, and stuff it into my mouth. They must be fresh from the deep fryer, because the mound of food between my lips is an inferno. It’s all I can do not to spit it back out, but I won’t give Jasper the satisfaction. Instead, I suck a small stream of air, focusing on dropping the temperature at the point of entry as low as I can manage, until the tangy mush finally chills. My lips tingle, as do my fingers, so I take a long drink of water and force myself to swallow.
“How are they?” Jasper asks, giving me an uncertain look. “They’re usually pretty hot.”
“Delicious,” I say with a grin before I grab a second one. I wince as the crispy breading hits my burned tongue, but what doI care? No doubt Indigo is lurking outside the door, waiting to jump me the second we go back outside. I’ll have a whole new set of taste buds in no time.
“Look,” Jasper says. He reaches for a pickle, but I snag the basket. If he wanted me to taste them, I’m going to eat the whole damn order. Let him ask for more. “Clearly I’ve upset you.”
“No, I’m fine,” I say as I swallow again. “I’m just really hungry.”
“Morgan.”
I eat another pickle. “Like you said. They’re delicious.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” If anything, I should be apologizing for not telling him the whole truth. But let him think I’m a jerk. It’s easier.
Also, the tingling in my lips is getting worse, even as the pickles cool. I suck down the rest of my water, hoping to rinse it away. I’m amazed I can feel anything at all, but for good measure I grab the last pickle and jam it into my mouth, chewing so fast I bite my tongue, but hey, what’s a little blood on top of the dead epithelial cells?
Except the tingling grows. Actually, it’s more like an itch. It’s spreading over my scalded nerve endings and slowly making its way to the back of my throat and?—
Oh no.
I glance up at Jasper, who’s still watching me unhappily.
“What’s in these pickles?”
His worried expression relaxes, his smile grows. “Do you really like them? I know it’s not fancy, but?—”
“Jasper, what’s in the goddamn pickles?”
His fingers drum merrily on the table as the itching gets worse and adrenaline floods my nervous system, getting ready to do everything it can to keep me alive.
His smile fades. “It’s pickles and?—”
“Hey,” the server appears, hurrying toward us from the direction of the kitchen. The worry on her face is unmistakable. “Did you say you were allergic to mustard or mayonnaise? Because I might have asked the cook if there was mayonnaise in the pickles and I think I got it wrong. It would definitely explain the look he gave me when?—”
I don’t hear the rest. What I thought was a symptom of burning all my taste buds off is actually the sensation of my tongue swelling as my autoimmune system goes into overdrive. I fumble, looking for my laptop bag, but of course it’s not here because who brings a laptop on what must essentially be the worst second date they’ve ever been on? No, my laptop bag—along with the EpiPen inside—is in my car.
“Morgan?” Jasper says as I lean back, trying to find more room to breathe. “Morgan!”
Goddammit.
I haven’t had an allergic reaction in close to ten years. I have been deathly careful my entire life, and all it took was one henchman with a greasy food craving to bring it all down.
As my lungs realize there’s a problem and my chest aches, I glare at Jasper, whose face has gone white with terror.
“We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” I gasp.
Will we ever.
CHAPTER 9
