She smiled, and Brice felt the warmth go straight through him. She had a home-town, girl-next-door look that somehow made a man forget things he was better off remembering. Like the promises Brice had made to himself when his father left. Like the fact that if he made love to Suzanne again it would be disastrous for everyone involved.
Let her go, his internal voice commanded.
Brice’s legs started to move, his feet taking step after step until he reached her side.
“I had fun,” she replied.
Tell her goodnight. And walk away.
“You’re a natural,” he said instead. “You should play more often.”
“Maybe I will.”
He could see questions in her eyes, questions he didn’t want to answer.
Without permission from his brain, his hand reached up and loosened the towel covering her hair. Damp, copper-colored curls, sprang free from their confinement and bounced across his fingers. “Maybe you will,” he repeated.
Turn away. And whatever you do, don’t kiss her.
“Tell me to stop,” Brice demanded in a husky whisper as his head lowered closer and closer toward her luscious mouth. “Tell me.”
“I can’t,” she said and raised her lips to meet his.
Brice could no more prevent the kiss than he could re-route the sun. The caress was destiny or fate or serendipity. Kismet. It was out of his control. Never before had anything taken such complete command of his mind and body. Nothing except for a cup of blue shampoo and its redheaded maker who haunted his every waking moment.