Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1)(30)

“Is wit bwad?”

“It isn’t good,” I answered vaguely. “Please, let me take you to the hospital.”

“No,” she refused, taking some of the sting out of it by offering a smile. I mean, her mouth didn’t smile—it was too swollen—but there was visible happiness in her eyes. “I’m owkay. Pwomise. Wust nee Benedwiw.”

The doors opened on the ground floor, and I peeled out of there like a drag car, Georgie in tow.

“Swow down, Kwine,” she ordered, tugging on my hand and nearly tripping on her dress.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, knowing I wouldn’t be able to beat the panic back enough to slow down to her pace.

She smiled again, but it didn’t last long. It turned right into a shout when I swept her off of her feet and into my arms and took off at a jog again, dialing Frank as I did.

Two rings and he answered.

“Mr. Brooks?”

“I need you to meet us at the Rite-Aid on the corner!”

He wasn’t used to me shouting, but he sure as hell didn’t question it.

“Yes, sir.”

One look at Georgie’s face, and I started running faster.

For the first time in ten years, I didn’t have the first clue what I’d done with my phone after ending the call—and I didn’t care one bit.





“Here.” Kline slid back into the car and handed me a brown paper bag with what I could only assume was Benadryl.

“Tanks,” I whispered, offering a small smile.

He furrowed his brow, lips fighting a wince.

Shit. How bad is it?

Seeing as it was my first date with Kline, I knew this wasn’t an optimal situation. In a matter of a few minutes and one perfect, sexy kiss, I had gone from smiling and offering up charming, flirty responses to sounding like I was talking around a wiener in my mouth.

Lime juice had sabotaged me. It had been years since I’d come in contact with the allergy-inducing demon. And the last time, it was way worse. My throat had started to close up because I had ingested it, whereas this was just contact swelling.

Swallowing a few times, I confirmed my throat was breezy and clear.

But the way Kline was trying not to react to my appearance?

Well, that had me rummaging through my purse and getting my compact out. Flipping the clasp, I opened the mirror, coming face-to-face with something that could nauseate horror movie enthusiasts. Bright red blowfish lips consumed my face. The skin was stretched so tight I feared something might burst.

Bottom line: It was bad. Real f*cking bad. Kylie Jenner’s mouth on steroids bad.

“Ah ma gaw,” I gasped, tongue still swelling by the second.

I glanced at myself in the mirror again, which was a big, fat mistake of epic proportions. The swelling seemed hell-bent on consuming my entire face.

“Tis is ba! Tis is so ba!” I grabbed the paper bag off the seat and pulled it over my head.

On a Britney Spears’ scale of embarrassment, I had proverbially flashed my beaver to millions of people.

For the love of God, the inflammation is going to my brain. I can only think in celebrity speak. My allergic reaction had turned me into Leslie.

“Georgia, please, don’t hide your pretty face.” Kline removed the paper bag, staring back at me with serious concern.

Pffffffft. Pretty? All forms of pretty had fled the building the second I had contracted elephantiasis of the face.

I averted my eyes from his and focused on removing the cellophane wrapping from the Benadryl. “Somonabith,” I cursed, fumbling with the childproof cap.

He gently took the bottle out of my hands, detaching the cap with ease, and handed it back to me. “We need to get you to an emergency room. St. Luke’s is just around the corner.”

Oh, hell no. Out of all of the emergency rooms in New York, I was not going to that one.

Well, unless my reaction gets worse—then I’d reconsider. I’d face the embarrassment and my brother’s incessant teasing for a shot of epinephrine over not breathing at all. I’m not a complete moron.

I shook my head frantically. “Ma brudder. Nob way.”

He scrunched his brow up in confusion.

“Nobe. Nob hobitals.”

My brother Will was finishing up his ER residency at St. Luke’s, and I knew for a fact he was elbow deep in a twenty-four-hour call shift. If I walked into his ER looking like this, I’d never live it down.

“But—”

“Uh-uh. Nob habbenin’,” I cut him off, resolute.

And to solidify my decision, I tipped the bottle of Benadryl to my goliath lips and knocked back as much as I could.

“Shit! Georgia!” Kline grabbed the bottle from my hands, panicked. “That’s too much. Way, way too much.”

I shrugged, reaching for the discarded paper bag and pulling a pen from my purse.



No ERs needed, I’ll be fine, I wrote, holding it out to him.



He frowned. “I’m really worried.”



I promise, I’ve been through this before. The Benny will do the trick.



I reassured, hating seeing him so anxious.

His mouth offered a wry grin. “Benny?”

I nodded, my neck doing its best impression of a bobblehead doll. It was safe to say, the antihistamine was kicking in.