Page 11 of Tate: Gemini King
“It can’t be that bad,” he says.
How the hell could he know anything about my love life? Tate doesn’t pay attention to anything that isn’t about himself. He cares about his job, the gym, and snoring on the damn couch whenever I need to sleep.
“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” I respond sternly. He ignores my tone, which I should expect at this point. Maybe I should manually put the shrimp into his throat…
“Can’t be any worse than my love life,” Tate responds mysteriously. There is definitely a part of me curious about that statement. Guys like Tate don’t have troubled romantic lives unless they’re the fucking problem. Who wouldn’t bend over for a tall, hot white guy? I’m not saying I think Tate is that hot. But country girls go crazy for the weird shit he has going on.
I shouldn’t even get tempted into talking about this with Tate. His love life is clearly hooking up with random women and treating them like objects. I bet a few of them tried to chop his ass up. Good for them. I’m not interested in hearing his side of the story.
“Okay,” I answer with as much disinterest as possible.
Tate continues staring like I have the Bible written on my face.
“Dating these days is hard. I don’t want to waste time with someone who I can’t see myself living with. Starting a family with.”
“If you meet a woman who considers living with you, point her in my direction.”
Tate smirks a little. “You’re funny, Natasha.”
“Thanks.”
“I bet you have a good reason for staying single,” he says. Um, yeah. My crazy ass roommate. I bite my tongue and let him keep talking. I don’t want Tate in my business.
“I haven’t been with anyone in a couple years,” he says. “Maybe even longer. There’s no such thing as meaningless sex. The more you try to run from that, the worse your life gets. Learned that shit the hard way.”
Tate did not say something emotional. He just didn’t. I need to feel the burn of some alcohol in my throat as confirmation that this is really happening. Plus, I need to get past internally freaking the fuck out over Tate’s confession. No such thing as meaningless sex.
There is no way a guy who looks like Tate genuinely feels that way. He’s playing me, and I’m not going to fall for him or his stupid ass shrimp Alfredo. Like I said — I’m not that desperate.
I chug the rest of the wine in my glass. Tate doesn’t mind because he’s clearly just contemplating his next words.
“I don’t know what happened to this generation, but when did it become so goddamn rare to find someone who wants to settle down? Why are we all so fucking obsessed with the idea of something better coming along? I don’t get it.”
I’m shocked that I agree with Tate on something.
“My ex left me because he hadn’t hooked up with enough people,” I reply. “Whatever that means.”
I have to pour myself another glass of wine just to get through the confession I shouldn’t even make to Tate Whitmarsh. I don’t need us having a heart to heart. He keeps eating and once I pour my second glass of wine, he gestures for the bottle so he can have his first. I suspect we’re going to get through that bottle pretty quickly.
The snow is coming down hard outside. Tate had better stay sober in case there’s some mess on the roads out there…
Tate laughs. “Enough? What’s the magic number.”
“More than four apparently,” I reply. “He wanted more experiences. I wanted to settle down.”
There are no men left who want to settle down. I’m done experimenting with getting my heart broken. To be honest, if Tate weren’t in the picture at all, I might have come close to adopting a pet myself. I would have adopted a normal pet like a cat or something, but it’s not Terrorist’s fault his father is a dumbass.
“You don’t want to settle down anymore?” Tate asks. He’s almost done with his pasta. Holy shit, that man can eat a lot. It’s always stunning how much bigger men are and Tate is a particularly large man. Everything about him almost feels like he’s a different species because of the size difference.
“No. I’m done begging guys to give me what I want out of life. I can handle it on my own.”
Tate shrugs. “Are you going to be with a guy at all?”
“I’m not gay if that’s what you’re asking.”
Maybe it’s the wine hitting me. Tate laughs again.
“That’s not what I’m asking,” he says. “It’s not.”