Torch: The Wildwood Series by Karen Erickson Page A

am I?” she asked, glancing down, her hair falling in her face. She shoved it back, an irritated noise escaping her as she frowned at what she wore. An oversize white T-shirt with the word Cal emblazoned across the chest, written in a blue cursive script. She had no idea where it came from.
    “My spare bedroom. You don’t remember coming back home with me last night?”
    She shook her head but stopped with a wince. Wow, that hurt. Maybe she had more champagne than she remembered. “What time did we come back here?” Not that the time mattered. Lord, did they do anything? And she somehow forgot that ?
    Man, she really hoped not.
    “We didn’t . . . ” Her voice drifted, and she gestured between the two of them, then waved her finger in a circle at the bed.
    Tate shook his head. “No. Nothing like that.”
    “Oh.” She felt stupid for even asking. “Okay. Uh, good.” Right. If they were going to mess around, she wanted to actually remember it. Too bad they didn’t at least kiss. Kissing was good, and she missed it. Missed kissing someone with warm, damp lips and a skilled tongue and wandering hands . . .
    Focus, Wren!
    “Do you remember fainting?” When she didn’t answer, he pushed for more. “The fire?”
    “I remember the fire.” Her voice was hollow. Sort of how she felt inside.
    Empty.
    “You fainted, and I caught you. You were pretty much out of it the entire drive here, and I half walked, half carried you inside.” He grabbed hold of her hand and she flinched, shocked at the spark of heat that flamed between them. “You really don’t remember?”
    She wracked her brain, trying to piece it all together. The fire was burned into her memory—no pun intended—and the fear combined with relief she remembered seeing in her brother’s face when he found her. The realization that she’d lost all of her belongings, her house, everything. How overwhelmed she’d felt. How lost.
    “Sort of,” she finally said, shrugging one shoulder. “Am I wearing your shirt?”
    “Well, yeah.” When their gazes snagged, he offered her a tiny smile. “I helped you change into it.”
    Oh, great. That meant he saw her pretty much naked because she wore no bra—she didn’t even own a freaking bra now—and the tiny panties she remembered slipping on last night were truly a waste of fabric.
    “I saw nothing,” he reassured her, like he could read her mind. “I pulled the T-shirt over your head and it fell to about midthigh. Then I just tugged your dress off from beneath the shirt and pushed you into bed.”
    “Really?” She sounded skeptical, but come on. This was Tate she was talking to. He was always making sexual innuendos at her expense.
    “Scout’s honor.” He crossed his heart with his index finger. “I didn’t see a thing.”
    Any other morning she would’ve laughed. She would’ve secretly wished he’d seen everything . She might’ve even whipped his T-shirt off and given him a glimpse of what he missed—if she was feeling particularly brave.
    But she was experiencing none of those things now. Not a one of them. Instead, all she could feel was this foreboding sense of despair. Emptiness. She had nothing to her name other than her car, her purse, and her phone.
    Tears threatened, and her eyes stung. She closed them tight, not wanting to cry. Willing the tears to go away, she sucked in a shaky breath and told herself to get it together.
    Hold it together.
    “I know you probably don’t want to deal with this right now, but Josh is here. He wants to talk to you,” Tate said, his voice gentle. He could probably see that she was on the verge of completely falling apart.
    She opened her eyes to find him watching her closely. “Who’s Josh?”
    “An arson investigator from headquarters. He wants to talk to you about last night. See if you can remember anything.”
    “I don’t know . . . ” Her voice drifted, and she glanced down, realizing that her fingers were still entwined with Tate’s. She