Russ frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
That earned another eye roll from Wren. “Come on, Russ. You’re not my dad.”
“Thank God for that, child.” Russ shook his head as he approached them. “She’s already had three,” he told Tate.
“And I’d like another, please.” She hiccupped, bouncing on the stool and Tate couldn’t help but think she looked kinda cute. And kinda inebriated. “Come on, Russ. Don’t be such a party pooper,” she whined.
“I’ll take care of her,” Tate said quietly, his words for Russ only. “Make sure she gets home safe.”
“You sure about that? I’ve known this girl since she was three and liked to eat dirt pies for dessert.” The pointed look Russ sent him was loud and clear. He’d entrust Wren to Tate’s keeping but he’d better keep his hands to himself.
Wren groaned and shook her head. “Why would you go and say that?” Her gaze met Tate’s and she tried her best to look sincere. “I swear I never ate dirt.”
The harrumph noise Russ made as he went to mix her a fresh drink said otherwise.
“Your secret’s safe with me, Seagull.” Chuckling, Tate reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her soft skin. She sucked in an audible breath, her blue eyes going wide, her lips parting. They were pink. And damp. Her cheeks were rosy—he’d bet money that was alcohol induced—and her gaze seemed to—again—gobble him up. Like she enjoyed his touch. Like she wanted more of it.
He had to be seeing things. Reading something into nothing. No way did Wren Gallagher want him.
Did she?