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.
“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.
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.
A low whistle sounded behind her and she went still, her breath trapped in her lungs.
“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 other 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 . . .
“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.
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.