Then Fiona breezed into the kitchen, and every bit of panic evaporated. His nerves settled and his thoughts calmed.
She’s the One.
She just was.
“Mmm. That looks good.” Fiona said as she fussed with a small gadget that looked like something Iva had in her bathroom.
She snicked a match and it flared into light, leaving an acrid scent trailing in the air after she lit a small candle and extinguished the match.
That was something else he liked about her that Gideon never realized he would: she was always fussing with something, setting up some kind of mood or environment, turning on music, talking about gobbledy-gook like numerology or reflexology, or palmistry.
He stilled.
Palmistry…that reminded him of her prediction when she’d read his palm those weeks ago. That he’d get married soon, and have at least one child.
Suddenly, his palms became damp and he needed a good-sized sip of the wine. He took it too fast and began to cough and sputter.
“Are you all right? Not a good one after all?” Her fine brows were raised in question.
Gideon took another drink of wine to smooth his throat, and managed to respond, “Went down the wrong way.
“Mm. Let me try?” Could she know how much that huskiness in her voice turned him on?
Gideon handed her a glass, feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly happy. And what was wrong with the woman he was involved with being so sexy, so interesting, so warm and caring, even if she was a little quirky?
Her eyes covered him from over the rim of her glass. Amber tiger’s eyes with a glint of humor and the depth of passion: a combination he’d never expected to find—or to want—in a woman. In that moment, he almost took the plunge…he almost mentioned the clothes he had waiting in the car. But that would open up too much, lay too much out on the table…and if she wasn’t ready for it, then he’d be facing a setback that he had no patience for. No, better to just enjoy the evening.
Steering his thoughts firmly away from clothes—either getting into them, or getting out of them—he sniffed delicately at the faintly citrusy air. “What’s that?” he asked, looking at the little gadget under which she’d lit the tea candle.
“An aromatherapy diffuser,” she replied, brushing past him to pull a large chunk of gingerroot out of a bag.
Gideon looked more closely at the object, which appeared to be a large crystal rock, cut in half so that the insides showed the pale lavender crystals in a small, cup-like shape. The outside of the stone was rough and grey, but the inside had a small hollow in which the smallest bit of liquid glistened. It sat on a small metal stand, and the tea light burned merrily under it. The room had begun to smell like…citrus and cinnamon.
“What is that smell?”
Fiona had begun to peel the ginger, and its pungency tinged the air now too. “It’s a mixture of essential oils used for relaxation and calming—bergamot and cinnamon.” She looked up at him from under her lashes with a decidedly meaningful expression and added, “Well, actually, the cinnamon is for something else.”
A pang twisted deep in his middle and he became breathless with the intensity of emotion that swamped him.
Jesus, but she always manages to get me off-guard.
“And what might that be for?” he asked, knowing full well what that coy, sensual look on her face meant.
“Well, cinnamon is also a wonderful massage oil. It has warming elements, and it has antiseptic purposes as well.”
Cinnamon—like her hair, her lips, her eyes, the faint freckles on her creamy skin… Cinnamon wasn’t just warming to him. It burned him.
“Oh?” he asked, deftly unwrapping the thick tuna steaks they’d purchased and trying to hide the fact that he was working through a maze of desire and some other deep-seated emotion that he would not name.
Not yet, anyway.
Fiona scooped the ginger into a haphazard pile and went to work on peeling and chopping garlic cloves. Ginger, cinnamon, citrus, and Fiona all combined—along with the wine—to make his senses sharp and hazy at the same time. His mouth watered, thinking about the meal they were preparing together, and about tumbling her onto the old-fashioned, white, wrought-iron bed piled with pillows…and about waking up next to her in the morning.
“It’s also good for other things.” She still had that look on her face—that slight smirk that tipped her mouth to one side. She turned to pour a bit of oil into a pan, then pivoted back toward him and the tuna steaks. “Brush these with the oil,” she directed, handing him the bottle.
“What other thing?”
“Oh…dry heaves….” She shot him a look that told him she was enjoying their banter, even though they both knew where it was leading.
