Torch (Wildwood 3)

“Don’t go,” she said, her eyes meeting his. His brows went up until they looked like they could reach his hairline, and she snatched her hand away, her fingers still tingling where she touched him.

Whoo boy, that wasn’t good. Could she blame it on the alcohol?

Tate settled his big body back on the barstool, ordering a Heineken when Russ asked what he wanted. “You all right, Bird?” His voice was low and full of concern, and her heart ached to say something. Admit her faults, her fears, and hope for some sympathy.

But she couldn’t do that. Couldn’t make a fool of herself in front of Tate. She’d never hear the end of it. It was bad enough how he always managed to give her a hard time.

So she’d let the “Bird” remark go. At least he hadn’t called her Cuckoo or Woodpecker. “Having a bad day,” she offered with a weak smile, lifting her ice-filled glass in a toasting gesture. At that precise moment, Russ delivered Tate’s beer and he raised it as well, clinking the green bottle against her glass.

“Me too,” Tate murmured before he took a drink, his gaze never leaving hers.

Wren stared at him in a daze. How come she never noticed how green his eyes were before? They matched the beer bottle, which proved he didn’t have the best taste in beer, but she’d forgive him for that.

But yes. They were pretty eyes. Kind eyes. Amused eyes. Laughing eyes. Sexy eyes.

She tore her gaze away from his, mentally beating herself up. He chuckled under his breath, and she wanted to beat him up too. Just before she ripped off his clothes and had her way with him . . .

Oh, jeez. Clearly she was drunker than she thought.

TATE CONCENTRATED ON drinking his beer, trying his best not to look in the direction of the beautiful girl who always acted like she hated him. But it was proving difficult, considering she was sitting so close. As in, he-could-smell-her close. She’d-actually-voluntarily-touched-him close.

Even kissing close.

Not that he could kiss Wren. She’d probably sock him in the mouth if he ever tried. She’d seemed irritated by him from the very first moment they met. He had no idea what happened, what exactly made her act that way toward him, but her rude behavior became a sort of game. He’d even named the game, just for fun.

How fast can I piss off Wren?

Pretty damn fast was always the answer. He loved giving her a hard time, considering she always reacted so strongly, like he was the bane of her existence. Calling her whatever bird species came to mind instead of her actual name? Pure genius on his part. She hated it.

He loved it.

More like he loved driving her crazy.

If he was being truthful, he loved her name too. It was pretty. Unique. Much like the woman herself.

Yeah, that thought got him nowhere.

All his life, women had never been much of a challenge. He’d smile, he’d flirt, and the next thing he knew, they were giving him the eye. Letting him know in no uncertain terms that they were up for anything. Lucky for them, he was always up for anything too. But he kept it simple and easy. No complications, no commitment, no unnecessary emotions getting in the way. He liked it that way.

No, he fucking loved it that way. Commitment was for sissies.

So his new friend West had fallen hard for Harper Hill. Like he could blame the man. She looked like someone who’d take care of you and rock your world, all at once.

And Lane and Delilah had recently taken a step in the commitment direction too. He could get on board with that as well. Though Delilah scared the crap out of him, truth be told. Why, he wasn’t sure. Wren should scare the crap out of him too. She was a little mean. A lot grumpy. Always giving him shit. Treating him like he was a big joke.

That’s why it blew his mind how attracted he was to Wren when she acted like he drove her crazy. And he sort of did—drive her crazy. Maybe he hadn’t left the best impression on her when he first moved to Wildwood. He’d been extra flirtatious. Extra . . . man-whorish? Isn’t that what Wren told him that one time last summer when she found him in the women’s bathroom at this very bar? His hands on some random tourist’s chest and his tongue down her throat?

The look of disgust on Wren’s face when she saw them together had made him feel bad. Guilty even. And he never did guilty. He wasn’t one to let someone else’s judgment dictate his actions.

Yet with Wren . . . after that one slightly scandalous moment last summer, he’d cleaned up his act. Well, a little bit. He at least became more discreet.

Truthfully? He wanted to get discreet with Wren. But every time he got close to her, she rolled her eyes and gave him endless crap over something fairly menial. What was her deal?

Worse, what was his deal when it came to Wren? For some strange reason he wanted her approval. He wanted her to like him, which was just . . .

Odd.

He normally didn’t give a shit what people thought of him.