Dating Dr. Dil (If Shakespeare was an Auntie #1)(26)

“Wow,” he said, his smile slipping from his face. “Okay, well, what if you try it again? Maybe it’ll change your mind? It really is the most delicious part of a latte, feel me?”

There was absolutely nothing delicious about foam, she thought. It was literally air. And she really wanted to tell him how much she absolutely did not want to feel him at all.

“Come on! Try it again.”

Because she knew that Prem was watching, she lifted the cup to her mouth and drank deeply hoping that some of the milk would come through the froth.

The hot liquid practically scalded her tongue, and it definitely didn’t taste like a plain latte. It had been so long since she’d had cinnamon that it took her a moment to identify it. By then, she’d already swallowed a huge gulp. Kareena put the cup down as far away from her as she could.

“Is there cinnamon in that?” she blurted out.

He nodded, his white teeth flashing again like shiny pieces of Dentyne gum. “Yes! It’s the flavor syrup. I know you said no cinnamon, but what normal person doesn’t like cinnamon? I knew if you tried it again, you’d change your mind. Flavor can change your life, Kareena. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” she said. “I absolutely do mind.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Because of some concentrated cinnamon syrup? I didn’t think you’d be that kind of person.”

She had no idea what that meant, nor did she exactly care.

“When a person tells you what they want, don’t ever think that you know better.” Achoo!

“Oh. Uh, bless you.”

Achoo!

And here came the itchiness, she thought. She pushed up the sleeves of her button-down and saw small red bumps forming on her arms. Damn it, she’d jinxed herself by forgetting her EpiPen and Benadryl. The last time she had to use either was a decade ago, so she had no idea how she was going to react now. A little bit of cinnamon in Indian food gave her some rashes, but the concentrated stuff? It could send her into anaphylaxis.

“Whoa, uh, your face is looking a little red, and that’s something with our skin tone.”

“I’m allergic to cinnamon.”

“Shit.”

Before she could get out of her chair, Prem was crouching next to her. “Where is your EpiPen?” he said.

“I don’t have it on me. Achoo!”

“You came to a coffee shop with an allergy to cinnamon and forgot your EpiPen? That’s great.”

He remembered.

“Open up,” he snapped.

“What?”

He held her head in his palms. “Open your damn mouth, Kareena.”

There was something in his tone that had her snapping to attention. Prem used his cell-phone light to check her throat.

Seconds later, he was pulling her to her feet. “Come on. Where is your car?”

“I don’t have one here,” she said. Achoo!

Kareena barely had a second to grab her bag before she was pulled across the café and through the front door. She registered Dave’s shocked expression as Prem dragged her to his pretentious Audi A7 toward the back of the lot. He shoved her in the passenger seat, ran around the front, and got behind the wheel.

“I need you to tell me if you start to have a hard time breathing. We don’t want anaphylaxis.”

“What will you do, celebrate? Achoo! God, I’m so itchy. I told him I didn’t want cinnamon!”

“He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who cared,” Prem said as he sped out of the parking lot. “Any allergies to latex or other medication?”

“No.”

“I think I remember you saying that the last time you had an episode was years ago.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Wow, we talked about a lot that night.”

The harsh lines around his mouth softened. “Symptoms? Tongue swelling? Throat swelling?”

“Throat feels like it’s itching but that could be panic,” she said. Please, for the love of god, don’t pass out in front of Dr. D.

“Deep breaths. Do you have your insurance card on you?”

“Yeah,” Kareena said. Her throat was starting to feel a little itchy. She gripped the seat belt she’d struggled to put on. Who would’ve thought that she’d be speeding through Edison toward the hospital with Prem Verma?

The itchiness was insane. She hated every moment of it. Curse cinnamon!

“You need to always carry your EpiPen with you,” he said. “Especially if you’re going to a café. What if the barista was the one who made a mistake? And I don’t understand why you don’t have a car. You should always have a ride when you’re going on dates. It’s about safety.”

“Achoo! It was a cinnamon concentrate. A syrup. And I’m still restoring my car. The one I told you about. Achoo!”

“The BMW 1988 E30, right? Did I tell you that my father was all about the BMWs when he immigrated to the U.S.?”

“You did. Achoo! First sign of success, I guess.” She wheezed. Her eyes began to tear, and her chest tightened. She wheezed.

“In through your nose,” he said softly. “A panic episode isn’t going to help you. We’re almost there.”

He twisted a few dials on his dashboard and the sound of a phone ringing poured out of the car speakers. “RWJ.”