“Riley? Are you okay?” “No.” I laugh breathlessly. “I can’t breathe, and my heart is beating fast.” His warm palm covers the clammy skin over my left pec, turning my skin to gooseflesh and searing me all at once. “Do you have heart problems?” “No.” Of course, his assumption is clinical. I hate the reminder that he sees me as a patient, but warm at the concern in his voice. “Does anyone in your family?” he asks, holding my pulse point on my wrist, which makes my heart kick like a mule. “No.” “When did this start?” The second I smelled sugar cookies and heard your nervous voice when I opened my
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