Torch: The Wildwood Series (2 page)

“Never.” He polished off the beer and nodded at Russ, the old bartender who also happened to own the place. “Bring the lady another one too,” he told him.

Russ frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

That earned another eye roll from Wren. “Come on, Russ. You’re not my dad.”

“Thank God for that, child.” Russ shook his head as he approached them. “She’s already had three,” he told Tate.

“And I’d like another, please.” She hiccupped, bouncing on the stool, and Tate couldn’t help but think she looked kinda cute. And kinda inebriated. “Come on, Russ. Don’t be such a party pooper,” she whined.

“I’ll take care of her,” Tate said quietly, his words for Russ only. “Make sure she gets home safe.”

“You sure about that? I’ve known this girl since she was three and liked to eat dirt pies for dessert.” The pointed look Russ sent him was loud and clear. He’d entrust Wren to Tate’s keeping, but he’d better keep his hands to himself.

Wren groaned and shook her head. “Why would you go and say that?” Her gaze met Tate’s, and she seemed to be trying her best to look sincere. “I swear I never ate dirt.”

The harrumph noise Russ made as he went to mix her a fresh drink said otherwise.

“Your secret’s safe with me, Seagull.” Chuckling, Tate reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her soft skin. She sucked in an audible breath, her blue eyes going wide, her lips parting. They were pink. And damp. Her cheeks were rosy—he’d bet money that was alcohol induced—and her gaze seemed to—again—gobble him up. Like she enjoyed his touch. Like she wanted more of it.

He had to be seeing things. Reading something into nothing. No way did Wren Gallagher
want
him.

Did she?

Chapter Two

T
ATE JUST TOUCHED
her. Like, in a sweet, caring manner. Boyfriends tucked hair behind their girl’s ear. Irritating dudes who called her Seagull and thought it was funny did not.

Wren frowned, hating that he acted all sweet and then called her Seagull. How dumb was that? They were the scavengers of the bird species. They ate garbage. The lost ones who somehow couldn’t find the ocean and made their home at the next best thing they could find—a landfill.

Yeah. Seagulls sucked.

And so did Tate Warren.

Though she was sort of lying. He didn’t suck. Not really. He was being nice to her. Made sure she got another drink, which was delicious, though this time around she drank it a little slower because wow, she was buzzing hard. She kept pace with Tate as he sipped from his beer, admiring how the strong column of his throat moved when he swallowed. And the way his black T-shirt clung to his shoulders and stretched across his chest.

She’d seen that chest bare, the time they all met for a barbecue by the lake a few weeks ago. He’d been in bright blue board shorts and nothing else and, um, wow. She could still remember what he looked like that day. Little droplets of water had clung to his bare, tanned skin. She’d been tempted to lick every last one of those drops and see if he tasted as good as he looked . . .

Wren slapped her hands against her cheeks. Hard. So hard Tate’s head whipped around, and he stared at her like she’d lost her mind. She sort of had, thinking such lusty thoughts about someone she really didn’t like.

Really.

“Is my story so boring you had to slap yourself to wake up?” he asked, amusement lacing his deep voice.

“No, I just . . . ” How was she going to explain herself? Forget it. She dropped her hands and smiled as politely as she could. “Carry on.” He’d been telling her about a recent medical call where the old lady’s cat had been stuck in a very tall pine tree and how she’d fully expected him to climb it and rescue her pet.

Typical firefighter fare she’d heard many times before, if she was being truthful. Her dad was a retired battalion chief. Her brothers worked at Cal Fire. She’d heard many a fire-related story over the years. They weren’t that impressive. She didn’t usually go gaga over a guy in uniform because,
hello
, most of the time they reminded her of her dad.

So yeah. Firefighters were no big deal. That meant
Tate
was no big deal. She needed to remember that.

Like, really remember it.

His gaze narrowed as he studied her for a quiet moment. He brought the bottle to his lips and finished off his beer. She followed suit and drank the last of her cocktail, setting the glass on the bar with a loud thump.

“I think it’s time to take you home,” he said.

She leaned back a little. “You’re going to take me home?”

“Did you think you could drive yourself?” he asked incredulously.

“Um, I hadn’t thought that far yet?”

“Exactly.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he kept talking. “Someone could bring you by here tomorrow, right? So you can pick up your car?” He slid off the barstool and stood next to her, his hands sinking into the pockets of his cargo shorts, his expression expectant. “Or you could call me and I’ll pick you up and—”

“No, no. I’m sure I can find someone who’ll bring me. I’ve inconvenienced you enough.” She hopped off the stool and tilted her head back, smiling up at him. He was very tall. And he smelled really good. Like spicy, clean man. She leaned in close, trying to take a subtle whiff, but she stumbled and nearly fell into him before he caught her. His hands on her shoulders, he held her away from him, his brows furrowed.

“You all right?” He bent his knees so he could gaze into her eyes and she knew. Right then she freaking
knew
that she wanted to kiss stupid Tate before the end of the night.

“I’m . . . great,” she said, sounding a little breathless. Oh, yeah, she felt absolutely wonderful with his hands gripping her shoulders and the way he looked at her. Like he could see right through her, down to the very thoughts she was having about kissing him.

Hmm. Could he read her mind? She hoped not. Or maybe she hoped so because, hey, she wanted him to kiss her. Or she wanted to kiss him. Or whoever had the guts to make the first move because, wow, he had nice lips. His lower lip was full, and it looked tuggable. She’d gently bite down and give it a little tug with her teeth . . .

“You don’t look so great,” he said, his deep, very concerned voice breaking through her tumultuous thoughts. “You’re kinda pale.”

Fine. So her head was spinning. Was it because of him or the alcohol? Maybe both? “Seriously. I’m awesome.” She took a step backward and his hands fell away from her, making her sad. She liked it when he touched her. “Ready to go? Wait, I need to pay.”

“I already took care of it. Let’s go.” He took her by the arm, his fingers gently grasping her elbow as he steered her out of the bar. She said good-bye to Russ and waved at a few of the patrons, men she’d known for what felt like forever.

She was a little wobbly on her feet, and she was glad Tate had a hold of her as he escorted her out to the parking lot. That and she liked the way she felt when he touched her. Her head buzzed. Her blood heated. Her stomach swam with nerves and anticipation—of what, she wasn’t actually sure, but wasn’t that the best part? That she didn’t know what might happen when Tate took her home?

Her mind practically spun with the endless possibilities . . .

“Here we go,” he said as they slowed down near his black SUV. He had a nice car. He had a nice everything, truth be told. And clearly she was drunk because she had her head tilted to the side so she could check out his nice ass. Totally rude. Totally blatant.

But she totally didn’t care.

Wren started giggling, and she pressed her fingers against her lips to stifle the sound. But she couldn’t stop it—or help it. She started laughing harder when Tate let go of her arm and opened the passenger side door.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, that adorable frown of his making her melt a little inside. He was cute when he was frustrated.

“Nothing.” She tried her best to look sincere but failed when a hiccup escaped her. “I’m, um . . . ” She mentally searched for the right word.

“Drunk?” he offered, his frown evaporating and giving way to a smile. One of those I’ll-take-care-of-you-even-though-you’re-smashed-type smiles. Hmm, like maybe she was an idiot and he was losing patience dealing with her.

Uh-oh. Was he?

“Am I a pain?” she asked him once they were both settled inside his car. His scent lingered, and she breathed deep, savoring it. She could sit in his car forever and never get sick of smelling him.

Looking at him.

Her thoughts were . . . random. Definitely not normal. Tomorrow she’d probably go back to disliking him, but tonight she’d contemplate making a move on him. It was the alcohol talking. It made her bold. It made her stupid.

What would he do if she grabbed him?

She was leaning across the console when he finally said something.

“What do you mean?” He started the car and threw it into Reverse, glancing over his shoulder before his gaze met hers.

Up close, those pretty green eyes of his were extra intense. They sort of made her forget what she wanted to say. “Um, having to babysit me and drive me home. You probably have better things to do with your time.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Uh-huh.” That’s what they all said. She’d been in this predicament before. Once one of Lane’s friends had to take her home from a party after she’d passed out on the couch. He’d begrudged the situation the entire drive back to her place, grumbling under his breath how he wasn’t getting paid to be a babysitter, so why was he being treated like one?

Ouch. The memory stung. Of course, she’d been all of twenty, and Lane had been furious when he caught her drinking. Like he didn’t get drunk all the time before he turned legal age. Though her big brother was a pretty straight arrow. That’s why they could always count on him to handle family stuff when it went south . . .

“Your brain is just a-workin’ over there, isn’t it?” Tate gently teased, bringing her back to the here and now. “Seriously, Robin. I don’t mind driving you home. It’s no big deal.”

He was still calling her bird names, and it sucked. It sucked bad. She was tired of the other birds and the teasing and the pretend hate for each other. Though he never seemed to really hate her . . . more like she was the one who always acted like
she
hated
him
.

And she did. She so did. Because he made her want to do and say things she had no business wanting to do or say. He was a player—by his own admittance. She’d heard those words fall from his very perfect lips, and while she found him impossibly sexy, she also found him impossible. Men like Tate reminded her of her father.

That was the last type of man she wanted to be with. She’d witnessed her mother suffering through her crap marriage her whole life. Her entire family was in shambles, and it could all be traced back to her father.

A sobering thought, completely different from what her drunk mind was coming up with only moments before. So yeah. She didn’t want a man like him. Not really. She didn’t even want to fool around with a man who behaved like her father. That wasn’t tempting at all.

Not one freaking bit.

T
ATE COULDN
’
T STOP
sneaking glances at Wren, who was sitting so incredibly still with her eyes closed that he wondered if she was, um, alive?

But every few minutes she’d snore, a soft little snuffling sound that was kinda cute and reminded him that, yep, she was very much breathing. And willingly riding in his car so he could take her home. If it was any other woman, he’d be contemplating the many ways he could seduce her into his bed. How fast could he get her clothes off? How quick could he make her come? How long could he last once he was inside her? Because it had been a while since he’d been with someone, and this was Wren, after all. He’d quietly lusted after her for what felt like forever.

He had a hot woman who drove him crazy sitting in his car, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. No way would he take advantage of her. She was buzzed. Not sloppy drunk, but still. She was sleeping, for the love of God.

Shaking his head, he blew out a harsh breath, forcing his concentration on the road and not the woman sitting in his passenger seat. But of course, he still kept stealing looks.

Pretty brown hair that looked soft to the touch. Long, thick eyelashes. Rosebud lips slightly parted. Creamy skin. Nice tits—come on, he was a man; he’d checked out her rack multiple times—and a nipped-in waist. Decent legs. She wasn’t tall, so she didn’t have those long, sexy legs like her good friend Delilah, but he couldn’t complain. From what he remembered, she had a nice ass.

Great body, fiery attitude, smart mouth—what more could he ask for? He’d bet money she was wild in bed. Well. Maybe she wasn’t wild in bed for anyone else, but he could probably help her unleash her inner vixen or whatever the hell women called it.

Tate frowned. Her inner vixen? He’d had a beer and a half if that, and he was thinking like a complete idiot. He blamed it on the woman. He blamed it on his lusty thoughts, which were doing him no favors since he couldn’t act on shit. Not tonight, probably not ever, because he couldn’t risk attempting
anything
with Wren Gallagher. She already bagged on him enough about his supposed man-whorish ways. She definitely had relationship material written all over her, and he didn’t do that sort of thing.

Ever.

She shifted in her seat, murmuring something unintelligible. He tilted his head toward her, trying to make out the words she said, but it sounded like a whole bunch of nothing.

Until he heard her drop
his
name amid all the other words he couldn’t quite understand.

Tate frowned, clenching the steering wheel hard. No way did she just say his name in her sleep. He must’ve heard her wrong. Unless she was dreaming of kicking his ass—entirely possible—he doubted she thought of him ever. Certainly not while she was in dreamland.

But no. She said it again. Clear as day, followed by a sexy murmur that piqued his curiosity. Along with other parts of his body . . .

“What are you dreaming about over there?” he asked out loud, wanting to come out of his skin when she answered him.

“You.”

He jerked the steering wheel to the right and hit the brakes, skidding across the road before he came to a full stop in front of someone’s driveway. Studying her, he saw that her eyes were still closed, her body limp, a very satisfied smile curling her lush lips. She shifted in her seat, stretching her arms above her head, her smile growing, her eyes remaining closed. Her shoulders lifted, her breasts jiggling with the movement, and he practically had to shove his tongue back into his mouth, he was so mesmerized.

“Really?” he asked quietly as he shifted the vehicle into Park and turned so he was practically facing her. “Are you fucking with me, Gallagher?”

“Appropriate choice of words.” She laughed, this throaty, sexy sound emanating from her like nothing he’d ever heard before. His cock strained against his fly and he reached down to adjust himself, wondering at Wren’s transformation.

She’s asleep, asshole. That explains her sudden transformation.

Yeah. He needed to remember that. She was sleeping. And probably dreaming—though it was interesting, the possibility of Wren dreaming about him. But how could he believe what she was telling him if she was half-asleep?

“Wren?” He actually said her real name instead of calling her Sparrow or Robin or whatever. He wasn’t playing games any longer. But did he want her to wake up and realize her mistakes? Or keep sleeping and say things she wouldn’t normally say when she was awake and lucid?

“Mmm-hmm?” She turned her head, her lids lifting to reveal those deep blue eyes. They looked hazy. She wasn’t all there. He knew it.

Reaching out, he touched her cheek with just his fingertips. “You awake?”