Page 15 of Tate: Gemini King
It’s just the two of us stuck here alone. And we have all goddamn night.
“Okay, Natasha,” I say. “Feelings. What do you want to know about my feelings?”
I meet her gaze and try not to falter. A strong woman like Natasha senses weakness and she seems like the type who wouldn’t suffer it. It’s pretty easy to show her she doesn’t scare me. And neither do her questions.
“Tell me about who broke your heart,” Natasha asks with an almost gleeful expression on her face. This is what she needs to know to have proof that I’m emotional? What’s the point in confessing heartbreak to Natasha? I’ve been a man long enough to know that when women ask you for vulnerability, they have terms and conditions surrounding that vulnerability well set in their minds.
“I’m not doing that.”
Natasha shakes her head. “You are. You got me to confess my deep dark secret.”
“What? That you have psychosexual issues.”
Natasha makes that tooth kissing noise again. My muscles tense up. Why does she want to know that? She doesn’t want sex on the table, right? So it doesn’t matter.
“My only issue right now is my roommate who snores like a freight train and has absolutely no consideration for me,” Natasha says.
“Since when do I snore?”
“Says everyone who snores. Ever. Record yourself, Tate. It’s annoying.”
I laugh. “Is that why you hate me so much?”
“Among other things,” Natasha says with a lot of enthusiasm. I’m glad I can use her hatred to make her forget this discussion about feelings. “I also said you were inconsiderate.”
“Except for when I cooked you shrimp alfredo and got you a new puppy.”
“Terrorist is a responsibility, Tate. Not a gift,” Natasha says. But she smiles a little and I can’t tell if she’s just tipsy or if something I said finally warmed her up to him.
“I cooked for you. I haven’t done that in a long time.”
“Since you got your heart broken?” Natasha teases.
Our eyes lock. I want to fight getting real with her so damn badly. But I just… can’t.
“Yes. Since I got my heart broken.”
* * *
seven
Natasha
What the hell was I thinking drinking so much in front of Tate Whitmarsh? The alcohol must be clouding my judgment because instead of my obsessive thoughts about casting a spell on Tate or his untimely demise, I notice all the little things I find attractive about him. His lips. His eyes. The sweet wine coursing through me is dragging the demon out of me. I want to put my tongue on his neck. What the fuck is going on in my head?
The last thing we should talk about is heartbreak but the wine makes me reckless and my tipsy brain wants to take this opportunity to learn everything I can about Tate. Maybe I’ll find answers for why he snores so much, why I hate him this much and why he’s such an asshole.
I tell myself that I was meant to get drunk with him so I can have information to use against him for a backup spell. I don’t know what the future holds, but I know I have to keep an open mind. This doesn’t feel like a back up spell is about to happen. I just feel drunk and way too vulnerable around a muscular jackass like Tate.
Tate sighs and fluffs out his long hair. It’s so sexy. I’m not normally a long hair girl but watching him mess it up and fluff it out with those big muscular arms makes me want to climb on his shoulders and twist that hair into a man bun.
This is why I don’t drink. My thoughts are goddamn weird and stupid. I’m not attracted to Tate’s muscular arms. Or his weird, pretty-boy eyes.
“I was married,” Tate says. “It fell apart within a couple years and she moved to Charleston with my son and another man.”
Okay. What? Tate’s double whammy confession snaps my attention away from his possibly-sexy man bun and his thick, muscular arms. I don’t even know which part of Tate’s statement to focus on. My eyes roam over his face, searching for signs of deception. I keep finding details that add to Tate’s attractiveness, so I say something instead of just looking at him.
“You have a son?”