After getting a breath of fresh air, Charlotte walked inside to her volunteer workstation, where she acted as punch bowl lookout. On a typical day, no smart adult would touch the punch bowl filled with green liquid, but at the Annual St. Patrick’s Day dance, everyone indulged in the colored Kool-Aid. She told herself she was better off concentrating on making sure no one spiked the punch bowl than on Roman. Just remembering their sensual run-in earlier that day caused goose bumps to prickle along her skin. She’d gathered every ounce of courage she possessed to turn back toward him and reenact her fantasy. To reach out for him first. To accept and give in to his kiss despite knowing he could hurt her badly. And he had. The man had given her ego a huge bruising she wouldn’t soon forget. Now she knew how he’d felt all those years ago. Payback sucked royally, she thought. And yet she couldn’t deny his lingering appeal.
