“I’m not. Lane and West both asked that I specifically not tell her the cause of the fire was arson,” Josh said.
“That’s ridiculous. I already told her I thought it was arson. She needs to know. Maybe she saw something, or maybe she will see something.” Hell. Her brothers were just trying to protect her, but she deserved to know. She wasn’t a little girl they needed to take care of anymore. Her life could potentially be in danger, and her big brothers wanted to keep her in the dark? That was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “I’m going to tell her.”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Josh said, sounding worried. He was probably afraid of a Gallagher tag-team ass kicking. Tate really couldn’t blame him, but still. This was some straight-up bullshit. “Just . . . not yet. Give them a few days to cool down. Then you can talk some sense into their heads and get them to see your reasoning. I’m on your side with this one,” he grudgingly admitted. “She deserves to know what’s going on. She could possibly help us find the arsonist.”
“Right.” Tate sighed, the sound ragged. He didn’t want to agree to this. It went against everything he believed in. “Fine. I’ll keep my lips shut. But I’m off in a little over twenty-four hours. If no one has told her yet, I will. Swear to God. I’m not going to keep her in the dark about this. It’s too dangerous to keep from her.”
“I get it. I do, and I agree. Go talk to West and Lane. Convince them that they need to tell her what’s up. She’ll figure out something is weird if she spots Lane following her all the time anyway. He’s just some small-time cop. How stealthy can he be?”
Tate would’ve laughed any other time over Josh insulting Lane. The arson investigator didn’t like the Gallagher brothers, and the feeling was mutual. Even Holden thought Josh was an asshole, and he was rarely around the guy. But those Gallaghers held strong together. They took care of their own—sometimes to the point of overdoing it.
ONCE TATE ENDED the call with Josh, he knew his nap time was over. He went outside to call Wren on his cell, needing to hear her voice and reassure himself that she was okay.
“Hey, you,” she answered, sounding shy. It was obvious she still wasn’t sure how to treat him after they’d had sex. Her uncertainty was cute.
“What’s up, Dove?” She sighed irritably at his nickname, and he smiled. “You should be glad Woodpecker didn’t stick.”
“I wish none of them had stuck,” she said, but he didn’t believe her. Deep down inside, he knew she was a fan of Dove. Of all of the bird nicknames, even Woodpecker. “How are you?”
“I’m good.” He paused. “How are you? What’s new?”
She told him about hanging out with Delilah and Harper—and how she told her friends about what happened between them. “But I didn’t give them all the dirty details,” she rushed to add. “Just that we . . . you know.”
“Banged all night long?” he supplied for her.
“Right.” She laughed. “You make it sound so seedy.”
“Okay. We made love till morning light?”
More laughter, and the sound made his chest tighten. Damn, this girl. She had a way of changing his mood for the better no matter what. “That’s cheesy.”
?
??I give up. You describe it.”
“You want me to . . . what?”
“If we didn’t bang, and we didn’t make love, then what was it?” Now he was just egging her on, trying to make her squirm.
He had a feeling it was working too.
“We . . . had sex,” she said, her voice small.
“Oh, come on, Wren. I know you can get more creative than that.”
“Um, we messed around?”
“Try again.”
“You went down on me?”
Okay. That worked. “Don’t forget I finger-fucked you too.”
“Tate.” She said his name like she wanted him to keep his voice down.
“Wren.”
“You’re incorrigible.”