Torch (Wildwood 3)

Chapter One

WREN GALLAGHER WASN’T the type to drown her sorrows in alcohol, but tonight seemed as good a time as any to start.

“Another Malibu and pineapple, Russ,” she said to the bartender, who gave her a look before nodding reluctantly. She’d known Russell Fry since she was a kid. Went to school with his daughter Amelia, who’d moved the hell out of Wildwood the minute she graduated high school. She’d received a full scholarship to some fancy Ivy League college and never looked back.

Many times over the last few years, she thought of Amelia. And envied her tremendously.

She’d gotten out.

And Wren hadn’t.

Not that Wildwood was a bad place. She was happy here. She had a great job as a bookkeeper for various businesses around town, plus she’d invested in her friend Delilah’s dance studio. She had her family. She had her friends . . . friends who were all pairing off and finding love. All she could find was the bottom of an empty glass at a bar on a Monday night.

Woe is me and all that jazz. She’d roll her eyes at herself if she could guarantee it wouldn’t make her head spin. She was sort of spinning already, despite her internal promise not to overdo it.

“That’s your third drink,” Russ said gruffly as he plunked the fresh glass in front of her.

She grabbed it and took a long sip from the skinny red straw. It was her third drink because the first two weren’t potent enough. She didn’t even feel that drunk. But how could she tell Russ that when he was the one mixing her drinks? “And they’re equally delicious,” she replied with a sweet smile.

He scowled at her, his bushy eyebrows threaded with gray hairs seeming to hang low over his eyes. “You all right, Wren?”

“I’m fine.” She smiled, but it felt incredibly false, so she let it fade before taking another sip of her drink. No way could she tell this old man she’d known forever all her troubles. He’d tell her mother, who’d tell her father, and then they’d give her a call, asking her to come over so they could “talk.” Forget it.

Forget. It.

Her problems were hers and hers alone. Plus, they sounded ridiculously selfish when she voiced them out loud. People lost their jobs, marriages broke up, children got bad grades and failed school, people were diagnosed with fatal diseases, for God’s sake. What did she have to complain about? That she was feeling lonely? That maybe she felt the teeniest bit . . . stuck?

Yeah, she’d remained in her hometown versus running off to the big city, which had been her original after-high-school-graduation dream. She’d wanted to escape her tiny life, her family, all of it, but that never happened. She stayed home instead and worked and played and dealt with her family.

So her dad was a jerk. So her mom was a doormat. She still loved them. Her brothers were a pain in her ass, but she knew without a doubt if she asked any one of them—and she had three—for help, they’d drop everything to be there for her. No questions asked. That was nice. That fact alone made her feel safe.

And most of the time, she liked feeling safe.

She had good friends. Two best friends who each happened to be dating one of her brothers. What were the odds? Harper and West were serious. Lane finally came around and he was now in a full-blown relationship with Delilah. They even said they loved each other out loud. In front of other people and everything.

It kind of blew Wren’s mind.

Oh, and it depressed her. A lot.

Sighing, she pushed the wimpy straw out of the way and brought the glass to her lips, chugging the drink in a few long swallows. Polishing it off like a pro, she wiped her damp lips with the back of her hand as she set the glass down on the bar. Her head spun a little bit and she blinked hard, pleased to finally experience the effects of the alcohol swimming in her veins.

A low whistle sounded behind her and she went still, her breath trapped in her lungs. No way was that whistle meant for her. It was a typical Monday night at the bar. Well, what she assumed was typical considering she didn’t normally hang out here on Monday nights. She was literally the only female in the place beyond the waitress who had worked here forever. Helen was sixty-five with an old-fashioned beehive hairstyle that was dyed an artificially bright red. So she sort of didn’t count in Wren’s book.

“Trying to get drunk, Dove?”

That too-amused, too-arrogant voice was disappointingly familiar. Her shoulders slumping, she glanced to her right to watch as Tate Warren settled his too-perfect butt onto the barstool next to hers, a giant smile curving his too-sexy mouth as he looked her up and down. Her body heated everywhere his eyes landed, and she frowned.

Ugh. She hated him. His new favorite thing was to call her every bird name besides her own. It drove her crazy, and he knew it. It didn’t help that they ran into each other all the time. The town was too small and their circle of mutual friends—and family members—even smaller.

Tate worked at Cal Fire with her brothers Weston and Holden. He was good friends with West and her oldest brother, Lane, so they all spent a lot of time together when they could. But fire season was in full swing, and Tate had been at the station the last time they all got together.

She hadn’t missed him either. Not one bit.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

“What are you doing here?” Her tone was snottier than she intended and he noticed. His brows rose, surprise etching his very fine, very handsome features.

He was seriously too good-looking for words. Like Abercrombie & Fitch type good-looking. With that pretty, pretty face and shock of dark hair and the finely muscled body and oh, shit, that smile. Although he wasn’t flashing it at her right now like he usually did. Nope, not at all.

“I’m assuming you’re looking to get drunk alone tonight? I don’t want to get in your way.” He started to stand and she reached out, resting her hand on his forearm to stop him.

And oh wow, his skin was hot. And firm. As in, the boy’s got muscles. Erm, the man. Tate could never be mistaken for a boy. He was all man. One hundred percent delicious, sexy man . . .