Page 10 of Tate: Gemini King
I open my bedroom door to find our never-used apartment dining room in a bizarre state.
“What’s all this?”
“All what?” Tate asks innocently. I almost believe in his innocence.
Tate is gaslighting me. I’m not entirely sure what it means, but I know whatever he’s doing is gaslighting.
He has all the lights off and on the tiny, round Ikea dining table he has two places set and candles. The warm, glowing candle light makes our cheap-landlord-chic apartment look like Paris. I’ve never been, but it has the vibes and aesthetic of Paris. I smell wine and fresh bread. There’s even French bistro music in the background coming from Tate’s phone.
I take one step towards the table and he swoops in next to me.
“What do you think?”
He is standing way too close to me. There’s no way I should be able to smell Tate and it is extremely unfair that he smells like some sexy blend of leather and patchouli. He’s my nasty ass roommate, why does he smell like a luxury candle at Target? Elbowing him seems like the right next move.
I’m about to give him some attitude, when Tate’s scent hits me like a freight train and I’m stunned into silence but how damn good he smells for a second time. My knees shake a little bit, probably due to how long it’s taking for my body to register the disgust. He doesn’t look like he took a shower and he’s just wearing a simple red hoodie and grey sweatpants. Basic. Everything about him is basic. Except his muscles, his height and…
“Where’s Terrorist?” I ask once I get a hold of myself. I have to bring up the biggest current point of contention between us. I have to keep us fighting. I’ll be a lot stronger if I remember that Tate is my enemy and I’m trying to get rid of him, not fall for him. “We should turn on the lights so we can look for him.”
“He’s sleeping in my room,” Tate says, putting an arm around my shoulder and guiding me towards my seat. “Come on, Natasha. Pasta time.”
The patchouli scent causes a warm gush of distress between my legs. I try to wriggle away from his gigantic muscular arm, but he just pulls me closer.
“What are you doing, Tate?” I snap at him.
His voice is warm and suspiciously friendly. “Cooking dinner for my roommate.”
“This is a candle lit shrimp alfredo dinner.”
“Thank goodness,” he says, sighing dramatically. “I thought this was pizza.”
Tate pulls the chair out at my place and all but forces me to sit down. I have to give it to him. This shrimp alfredo looks good. I hate him so much. Tate sits across from me and just stares at me. I expect him to dive into the food or pour himself some wine, but he just looks at me.
“Is there something on my face?” I ask him rudely. He doesn’t stop staring. I’m the one who should be staring at ol’ face-tattoo but instead, he’s looking at me. At least I don’t have to smell him anymore.
“No,” he says calmly. “Taste it.”
His voice causes a strange response internally. I take a bite of the pasta, not to please Tate, but to suppress the weird feeling his voice just caused. I have to stop letting him get in my head. My stomach growls as I take the first bite and to my surprise… it’s fucking delicious. Tate can tell I like it because I don’t even react. I just keep eating.
“I’m a good cook,” he says arrogantly. “I knew I would impress you.”
I glare at Tate and fill up my wine glass. He watches me pour my wine and I ask him if he wants any. I’ll need way more wine than this to get through a night trapped with Tate, especially if he’s determined to keep making conversation. What do I have in common with a crusty ass white boy?
“I don’t need any wine,” he replies. “Not yet…”
When I wrinkle up my nose because of his ominous tone, his face becomes placid and calm again, so I assume I’m just reading into things.
“So,” Tate says. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“I don’t want to talk about my love life with you.”
“Why not?” he says. “We’re having a candlelit dinner.”
“Exactly,” I say. “I don’t want to ruin it by discussing my love life.”
For all I know, this will play out like a movie scene and Tate’s shrimp allergy will end up killing him in front of me. I have to stay calm and keep him talking until I have proof that I won’t get my spell to work right in front of me.
Tate laughs. He has a laugh like a coal miner that shakes his entire gigantic body, even if what I said wasn’t funny – or a joke.