Page 2 of My Accidental Holidate

“Shh, Babe. You’ll only make yourself sound desperate.” Mike reaches a damp hand across the table to pat mine.

I snatch my hand off the table and take another sip of wine, annoyed he beat me to the punch, but knowing all the time that it’s for the best.

“And here,” he says digging out his wallet, “I’ll cover my half of the meal.”

Okay, so that’s at least decent.

He stands and moves around the table, grasping my shoulder and pausing at my side to look down at me. “It’ll take time, but you’ll move on.”

You have no idea.

I relax into my chair once he’s gone and pour myself another glass of wine, still wishing it were white instead of red. If only I called if off last week, I could be in bed watching reruns of my favorite K-drama instead of being embarrassed about having a jerk dump me on Valentine’s Day in a fancy restaurant. I contemplate leaving, but before I can, the waiter sets the beautiful golden roasted chicken on a platter, surrounded by mushroom risotto and broccoli florets in front of me.

I briefly consider having the meal boxed up for takeaway, but the aroma makes my mouth water and I remember how I worked through lunch. Before I know it, I’m reaching for my fork and placing a helping of all onto my plate. The chicken is tender and cooked to perfection. The taste, something out of this world. I take another bite trying to pick out the flavors. Just salty enough with a hint of garlic and…I eat another forkful, concentrating on the flavors. Something I just can’t place.

I swallow, clear my throat politely, and swallow again. I’m about to try the risotto but my fork hovers over it as panic slowly spreads through my body. I pick up my goblet of wine and take a sip, which does nothing to subside the itching in my mouth and throat. Oh crap. I know what this is.

I gently squeeze and rub my neck with one hand and down the rest of the wine, my face getting hotter by the second. I’m certain that my face is as red as my dress. I take a slow and deep breath trying not to freak out more as my lips feel like they’re on fire and I feel like my throat is constricting.

Someone hands me a glass of water and I accept it, tossing it back like I’m doing shots at girl’s night. I turn to thank whoever it is, and Sexy Forearm Bartender stands there, concern etched on his face. The same one I’d just been eye-fucking not too long ago.

Unconsciously I start to scratch the top of my chest, my eyes widening in horror, when I realize that I’m starting to break-out in hives.

“Are you okay?” Sexy Forearms asks, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Wha… whas in the chimken?” I squeak pitifully, before breaking eye contact with him to examine my arms. Definitely hives. I look back at him, wishing it were anyone but him seeing me like this.

His eyes travel down my body and back up, eyes showing more concern if that’s even possible.

“The chicken? I don’t know…” He shoves a hand through his hair frantically. “Hey Peter! What’s in the chicken dish?” he asks the waiter Mike snagged when we sat down.

“Tonight’s special is roasted chicken glazed with chamomile and honey, with fingerling potatoes and accompanied by a side dish of baby roasted carrots with chamomile flowers for a—”

It’s going to kill me.

He finishes, “Romantic Valentine’s meal for lovers.”

“Oh shhit!” I squeak the curse and reach for my clutch, rooting around for a stray antihistamine. “I lergic to namomile.” Every word is stunted as my body concentrates on fighting off the invader instead of putting together full words.

Sexy Forearms’ face pales and Peter rushes into an apology, “I’m so sorry. Your husband didn’t mention any allergies.”

“No marries,” I say picking up the bottle of wine and taking a slug straight from it, chasing down the pill. “Don worry. Be find soon.”

Peter looks from me to Sexy Forearms, a worried and questioning expression on his cherubic face. Forearms nods and assures Peter that he’ll handle it. I don’t see how my face could be any redder, but it gets hotter from being referred to as “It”. Like I’m the evil clown from Stephen King’s novel.

In seconds, Sexy Forearms is sitting across from me, his deep brown eyes full of concern locked on mine. “What can I do? Can I bring you something? More water? Wine, what about Medicine? A tampon? Chocolate? Do you need a hug or—” he cringes and glances away before meeting my gaze again. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m in crisis mode.”

A smile breaks across my face and I let out a small laugh. “I’m fine, really. I’ve got my wine and I’ve taken an antihistamine.” My voice starts to return. “I’ll just let the medicine do its job and try to leave as gracefully as I can after all this.”

With every eye in the place on me, no doubt.

Forearms leans forward and bites his lower lip and I find myself wishing I could nip it for him. “Is your boyfriend coming back?” he asks quietly so as not to be overheard.

“Oh no, that man is completely out of my life. And frankly, I’m thankful for that,” I say holding up the wine bottle in a toast.

Something flashes across his face, but it’s gone too quick for me to guess what it is.

He leans back in his chair, tilting his head a little and giving me a smile. “My name’s Kurt, by the way.”

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