Torch: The Wildwood Series by Karen Erickson Page B

gave them an experimental squeeze, and he squeezed them back, his touch gentle, his rough fingertips rubbing against hers and making her stomach warm and fizzy.
    “It’s best if he talks to you now, when your memory is still fresh,” Tate said.
    Ha. Her memory felt like it was packed full of cotton. White and gauzy and hard to see through. “I’m probably no help. I wasn’t there when it started.”
    “He just wants to ask you a few questions.”
    Sighing, she lifted her head, her gaze meeting Tate’s once more. “You’ll go out there with me?”
    He nodded.
    “I don’t have anything to wear.” She pressed her lips together. Don’t cry.
    “Slip your dress on under the T-shirt.”
    “I’ll look stupid.”
    “Josh doesn’t care what you look like, Dove. He just wants to talk to you. That’s it.”
    Tate was right. She was being silly. Nodding reluctantly, she let go of Tate’s hand and he sprang from the chair as she eased herself off the bed. He brought her dress to her, handing it over. “I’ll tell him you’ll be out in a sec.”
    “Okay.” She swallowed and made a face. God, her mouth tasted terrible. “Do you have a spare toothbrush maybe?”
    “Yeah. Use my bathroom, which is right off my bedroom. Second drawer on the right side I have a pack of extra toothbrushes. Toothpaste is in the top drawer. Take your time.” He offered her a gentle smile before he left.
    She glanced around the bare room one more time, taking in the tiny white dresser, the spindly chair, the bed that couldn’t be bigger than a double. The room was very sparse, the thin white blinds covering the window downright sterile. Clearly the man hadn’t bothered to decorate this room. She didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one.
    If it was fully decorated with knickknacks and crap, that meant a woman had done it. Guys don’t care about things like that. Not really.
    Yeah. She’d take it as a good sign.
    Stepping into her dress, she pulled it up until she was fully covered, then decided to yank off the T-shirt and leave it on the bed. Not before she brought it to her nose and gave it a delicate sniff though. It smelled like him, and she breathed in deep, feeling like some sort of creepy stalker with a serious Tate fetish.
    Clearly losing all of her earthly possessions in a fire did strange things to a woman.
    Wren snuck down the short hall and into Tate’s bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her. She glanced around, noticing that this room at least had some character. It reminded her of Tate for some reason, though there weren’t a lot of personal belongings in the room that she could see. No photos anywhere of friends or family, though there were plenty of photos featuring familiar landscapes she recognized, of the mountains and lake that she called home.
    The photos were fabulous. She wondered who the photographer was.
    The bathroom was clean, no signs of womanly products anywhere. She found the packet of toothbrushes—she recognized a Costco special when she saw one—and tore out a pink-handled brush, figuring Tate would never use it anyway. She dug up the toothpaste in the top drawer and brushed her teeth extra hard, feeling the need to brush away all the grime and grit like it was negativity she could banish with a few minutes of scrubbing. A shower would be good, but she’d end up soaking under the hot spray for far too long, and that Josh guy might wonder what was taking so long.
    Hopefully she could take a shower after he left.
    She chanced a look at her reflection in the mirror and winced. Her hair was a mess, and remnants of mascara were smudged below her eyes. She wet her finger and wiped the leftover makeup away before smoothing down her hair as best as she could.
    It would have to do.
    Taking a deep breath, she exited Tate’s room and ventured out into the living room, where the most intimidating man in full Cal Fire uniform waited for her. He rose from the couch the second he saw her,