ŷ������

“Just shut up.��
But he doesn’t. “I’m not saying you should do anything. And that’s why I stepped in and didn’t let you bring her home.��
His tone turns serious.
“All kidding aside, Pike,�� he goes on, “she is exactly your type. You shouldn’t be alone with her.��
Yeah.
I know.
I just hope he’s the only person who’s noticed.
“Thanks for the intervention,�� I tell him, “but even if I were attracted to her, I’m capable of controlling myself.��
“You’re not seeing yourself from my perspective.�� He looks out the front windshield, solemn. “You look at each other like…��
“L�����?��
He swallows, an unusually troubled pinch to his brow. “Like the two of you have your own language.”
― Penelope Douglas, Birthday Girl

“The director said wonderful things about you, that you're very talented," I say, and then smell the cardamom Garrance had given me, and I'm instantly put into a trance from green, earthy, and perfumed aromas. It's like all my troubles are gone. I'm in India, envisioning dances and beautiful saris and delicious naan bread baked on hot coals.
Charles taps me on the shoulder. "Kate, where did you go?"
I wobble. "I think I was in Mumbai for a second. Maybe Chennai? I don't know. I've never been to India. I've just seen pictures in magazines."
He places his hands on my shoulders. "Spices transport you?"
"Yes," I say, still a little bit out of it. "Hers do."
He grips my shoulders, pulls me in closer. I smell his vanilla scent, and my knees turn to butter. "And I now know why my mother likes you. It makes perfect sense. She was right."
"About what?" I ask, breathing him.
"Working together and letting go of the bad energy. I know we can do this." His eyes spark with a passionate fire, and he smiles, his dimple puckering. I might melt like fondue. "Let's create a meal for her---the best one she's ever had."
He leans against the stove, his sexy, smoldering hazel eyes meeting mine.
My neck goes hot. I race over to the prep station and pick up the bag of cardamom, breathe it in---earthy, sweet, smoky, and nutty. Big mistake. Because I'm now licking his muscled chest in one of my deranged fantasies, which is so wrong. I throw the bag down, and the grains scatter on the countertop. Charles saunters over and places a hand on my shoulder. "Kate, everything okay?"
"Cool, cool, cool," I say. I shrug off his touch, dip around his shoulder, noticing how V-shaped he is. "I was thinking we add this into the peanut sauce for the satay."
"Good idea," he says. "Grind it. Nice and fine."
Stop. Stop talking with your lilting English accent. Stop smiling.
I'm staring at his hands, his lips, his eyelashes. My mind, my thoughts, and my body are about to explode.
"Kate, can you pass me the chilis? My mother likes things spicy."
"So do I," I say, reaching for it. Our hands touch as I hand him the spice.
I shiver.
"Me too," he says with a teasing growl. "And I know you added more pepper into my dish the other day. Good thing I can handle the heat."
I can't. It's getting way too hot in here.”
― Samantha Verant, The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique