Page 39 of Champagne Fizz

Maybe he—he—he’s—

10

SIMON

Ihold the bag of ice firmly against the back of Kendall’s neck and bring the glass of water up to her mouth. Her eyes are half-glazed as she tilts her face away from me and mumbles, “I don’t want wate—”

But I insist. “You need to drink this, Kendall, you’re overheating.”

The barista who looked at me wide-eyed when I barged into the kitchen of his coffee shop carrying a woman in my arms and barking orders—“I need ice, water, and a chair. Where’s your fridge?”—He stares at me now with a furrowed brow. His hands clutch his cell phone with fingers poised and ready to punch in 911.

I shake my head at him and cradle Kendall in my arms. We sit next to the open door of their industrial fridge that’s cooling her down, and yes, I may have overreacted a little. Kendall isn’t so overheated that we need to call in the ambulances.

“Thank you,” I say to the barista. “If you could just give us a few more minutes, we’ll be out of your hair.”

He nods warily, still keeping his phone at the ready, before he walks back into the service area out front.

I tilt Kendall’s head so she can take a drink from the glass, and thankfully she does, coughing and dribbling water down her chin. I wipe the spittle from her lip, and suddenly she sits straight up as if my touch has shocked her.

“Hey, hey, Kendall? I’m right here,” I say, as she looks around the room quickly, trying to get her bearings. “We’re in a coffee shop,” I explain, “in the kitchen, and you almost passed out. Here, drink this.”

The ice chills my fingertips as I hold the frozen bag to the back of her neck.

Kendall adjusts in my lap, taking the glass from me with a wobbly hand, before gulping down the water voraciously. She gasps when she’s finished, looking at me doe-eyed and disoriented. This is thewrong timeto think she looks beautiful: her hair wild and slicked to her forehead, and her cheeks red and blotchy. Still, something about her just gets to me.

I push hair from her face, and she shivers, her brown eyes looking up at me softly.

“You’re fine,” I explain. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

She adjusts and tries to stand up, but she’s too unsettled to stand on her own.

“Hold on. Relax,” I instruct, holding on more firmly. “You’re fine. Okay? Just give your body a second to cool down.”

“Cool down?” Her eyebrows knot and a shock of fear fleets through her expression.

“You’re fine,” I reiterate, adjusting the ice so it presses into a different section of her neck. “I’m not sure if you had a panic attack, or if you were dehydrated—”

“Wait, did I—?” Her eyes get wide.

“You didn’t pass out,” I explain, but she narrows her eyes at me like that’s not what she meant. “You were disoriented, yes, and pissed off at me. I thought you were going to black out on the pavement. So I brought you in here where there’s a fridge and ice.”

She surveys me, concerned, like I might judge her for getting heat stroke in the middle of a hot Hawaiian afternoon. But then she rasps out, “okay” and “thank you” timidly.

“Has this happened before?”

“No, not like—” she starts, but then she catches herself, pushing another bramble of hair out of her face defiantly. “No,” she says, straightening up and pointing to the chair next to me. “I think I can—”

I help her move onto the chair and hand her the bag of ice, which she presses directly into her face.

“Thanks,” she says quietly, giving me a tentative glance when she removes it.

“It’s not a problem,” I say, watching the red blotches on her skin begin to dissipate. “It’s not every day I get to literally swoop a girl off her feet.”

She smiles softly. “How chivalrous of you.”

“Not really,” I admit. “It was more a necessity. My choices were to pick you up or let you face-plant on the sidewalk. Gravity and all.”

“Gold star for not stepping aside and choosing the face-plant option.”

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