Torch (Wildwood 3)

Shuffling his feet, Tate coughed discreetly, but they still didn’t come up for air. He cleared his throat.

Nothing.

Hell. “Uh, you two should think about getting a room,” Tate called.

Harper immediately broke the kiss and shoved West away, her entire face red as she turned to Tate. “Um, hey.” She waved, unable to meet his gaze.

He wanted to laugh but figured he’d piss West off, so he remained quiet. West glared but stepped away from Harper, smoothing his hands down the front of his uniform shirt. “What’s up?” He gave the universal man chin lift at Tate.

“I should go,” Harper said as she stood on tiptoe to kiss West’s cheek. She patted his chest, smiled at Tate, and hurried away in a flurry of motion, her flip-flops slapping against the sidewalk as she headed toward the parking lot.

“Did she bring a pie?” he asked once Harper was gone.

Harper stopped by the station when she could, always with a sweet, shy smile for West and sometimes bearing pie from the Bigfoot Diner, the restaurant her grandma owned. Her grandma was famous for her desserts, especially her pies. If Tate was dating Harper, he’d be as big as a house and happy as fuck from eating all the pie he could ever want.

“No, she didn’t bring a pie.” West rubbed his hand over his head, sending Tate a pointed look. “I forgot my wallet at home when I came into work yesterday and she finally brought it by.”

“Ah.” Sounded like an excuse to Tate but whatever. Who was he to judge?

“She also said she wanted to have you over for dinner Saturday, if we don’t end up having to work.”

“I’d love to. Can I make a request for dessert?” Tate grinned, and West gave him the finger, chuckling under his breath as he turned and walked away.

Tate whistled as he walked toward the garage. He knew West was still bent out of shape about the Wren thing, but he’d get over it.

Eventually.

“WHO ALL IS coming to this dinner?” Wren asked Delilah as she applied black liquid eyeliner on her upper lids. She loved eyeliner pens. They made the cat-eye technique so much easier.

“Me and Lane. West and Harper, of course. And . . . ” Delilah’s voice drifted until she became silent.

Wren stared at her iPhone where it sat on the bathroom counter, willing her friend to finish her sentence. It was Saturday night, she was getting ready to go over to her friends’ house for dinner, and she had Delilah on speaker while she finished putting on her makeup. “And who else?” she asked sharply when Delilah didn’t say anything.

“Fine, it’s Tate. But don’t make a big deal about it. Harper’s not trying to set you two up or anything. She was feeling bad because, or so she claims, he’s alone all the time, and she wanted to include him in our group stuff,” Delilah explained.

“Oh, come on. Tate Warren is not lonely. He’s always got girls falling at his feet.” Wren leaned closer to the mirror. Her hand was too shaky as she tried to draw the eyeliner along her lash line, so she set the pen on the counter. Why were her hands shaking? It had nothing to do with Tate, did it?

She hadn’t seen him since he dropped her off at her place five days ago. After he claimed he wanted to tuck her into bed and she’d been so tempted to let him. Until he sang that stupid, stupid song and pissed her off.

The next morning she woke up with a raging headache and massive regret. Regret that she ever thought something could happen between her and Tate. She realized her mistake—drinking around Tate got her into trouble. Alcohol made her lose her inhibitions. She’d been so tempted to make a move on him, and she was sort of glad that she didn’t.

She was also sort of sad that she didn’t. Not that she’d ever admit that out loud.

“Not really. Tate’s been working too much this summer. No way he had time to go out with anyone,” Delilah said, interrupting Wren’s thoughts. “He might flirt or whatever, but that’s how he puts the women he deals with at ease.”

Uh-huh. That sounded like an excuse.

“Besides, this is all coming from Harper,” Deli

lah continued. “She’s a total mama bear, you know. Always wanting to take care of people—bring them into the fold and make sure they’re happy.”

“I think he’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself,” Wren retorted, taking a step back so she could check herself out more fully in the mirror. Did she look all right? Her hair was kind of limp, but it had been so hot today she’d put it in a ponytail. That’s why she wore a strapless sundress that was a long column of cobalt blue. Nothing too sexy. It wasn’t like she had huge boobs, and the dress covered her to her toes.

But her shoulders were exposed and she had the slightest hint of cleavage going on. Would Tate like it? Or would he think she was trying too hard?

Wren frowned. When did she care what Tate thought? And why did he always pop into her head at the strangest times? She wasn’t supposed to like him. After all, she was the one who always instigated their arguments. Though someone had once called their arguing foreplay—probably Delilah—and, well, maybe it was.

Oh God. Maybe it was.