Page 17 of Tate: Gemini King
I don’t know many people who would say that about the least well-known part of New York state. It’s magical. Unless you’re a college basketball fan, or SUNY graduate, most people don’t even know where Syracuse is, much less our tiny town with barely ten thousand people.
Despite my gut instinct to laugh at the notion of this place being magical, a part of me finds Tate’s appreciation… romantic. There’s nothing wrong with appreciating the simple things. It’s wholesome. Unlike the snoring yeti who pisses me off every damn day. It feels wrong to see this side of him. Especially since I then notice him staring at me. Way too hard.
“I loved that woman,” he says. “For a long time, I thought I would never love anyone else. But that’s a load of bullshit. I would rather get my heart broken a hundred times than to ever stop believing in love.”
I don’t feel like I’m talking to Tate. Clearly, some evil spirit has invaded him and is turning him into a… weirdly romantic country boy, like a country singer type, not a dirty redneck. No offense. I suppress all the weird warm feelings flickering in my chest. Those aren’t feelings a normal woman would have for Tate. Even if he’s tall. Even if he has a broad, manly chest like a better version of an Englishman in a Jane Austen novel. Mr. Darcy didn’t deadlift, so no way he had a body like that…
I snort and play it cool, because Tate and his extremely well-built body are muddling my thoughts far too much. He’s not good for me. “I don’t think I could survive a hundred heartbreaks. You’re tripping, white boy.”
“The last guy fucked up that badly, huh?”
My gut tells me not to go there with Tate. He’s not boyfriend material. He’s not a guy I’m dating. He’s my hairy, obnoxious, dangerously hot roommate who lured my ass out here with shrimp alfredo and wine. Is it my fault the shrimp alfredo slapped?!
I try to get a hold of myself, but I sound drunk as fuck when I answer him.
“I already told you, it’s a dumb idea for us to talk about this.”
“I told you my story. It’s only fair if you tell yours.” Tate has a voice that’s so damn deep and sexy that he could really make me forget myself. Those pretty eyes are the kind of eyes that make you trust a man. If I weren’t his roommate, I would have never guessed the demonic energy contained behind those unfairly long lashes that men always seem to have. I smirk and shake my head, confirming my refusal.
“I’m not telling you shit.”
Tate raises an eyebrow, like he’s sure he can manipulate some truth or secrets out of me just by being handsome as fuck. Life doesn’t work that way, Whitmarsh.
He asks me in a gentle, deep voice that he’s trying to make threatening. “Are you sure you want to play that game?”
“It’s not a game,” I respond bluntly. “I’m not telling you shit. It’s bad enough you’re getting me drunk, I’m not telling my worst enemy all my secrets.”
Tate laughs at me and I suddenly understand why it’s so damn annoying to be laughed at. I glare at him and search his face for a good place to land a little punch. Just in case it becomes necessary.
“I’m not your worst enemy,” he says. “I might be if you don’t tell me who fucked you over and made you hate men so much.”
I hate the accusation that my normal response to the way men have treated me over the years equates to hatred.
“I don’t hate men.”
“You hate me,” Tate says cockily.
“Therefore I hate all men?”
“If you hate one of the hottest guys in this town who has been nothing but an angel to you for no reason at all… Pretty sure you hate all men.”
Tate logic makes absolutely no sense. If I don’t fall into his arms without him applying any effort at all, mind you, it means I have a problem with men. His stupid little accusation makes me want to bury my secrets even deeper. I purse my lips shut and bite down on my lower lip as if I can physically stop the truth from jumping out.
He presses his face closer to me, scrunching up his brows and staring at me. “You can’t hide from me, Natasha. You’re going to tell me.”
“Make me.”
Why the fuck did I say that?
Tate’s brows raise just a little. The tension between us becomes impossible to ignore and terrifying. I can’t take my eyes off his, and it feels fucking dangerous. Too goddamn dangerous. I should look away, but I can’t.
“Okay,” Tate says.
And then he stops talking. He rises to his full height. Every last inch of his excessively tall ass towers over me. He looks even bigger than he did before I started drinking. With just one hand, Tate grabs my arm. I think he’s just lifting me to my feet at first, then my giant male roommate lifts me off the ground.
I scream as he throws me over his shoulder. “PUT ME DOWN!”
I beat my fists against his back as hard as I can, but after three good hits, my fists feel like I was slamming them into a concrete wall. His muscles are thick like a goddamn beast, not like a human male. I scream his name again and kick madly, but my efforts to get Tate to put my ass down fail completely.