Chapter 5: Natasha

I don’t knowwhat just came over me. Tate finally pissed me off enough I had to fuck myself, I guess. I just hope he didn’t hear it. Men don’t pay attention to anything, so I’m not even tripping like that. The man just gets on my nerves. He drives me to act on the worst impulses that pop into my head.

I’m surprised that I haven’t given up on the spell already and gone for old-fashioned murder. A bed warmer? Who the fuck says that to someone? He clearly thinks because he was born with moderately good looks he can get away with anything. The only time I want that man anywhere near me is if I have my hands wrapped around his damn neck.

What the hell was he thinking exposing me in the shower like that and just staring at me? The way he looked at me was… dirty as fuck. I can’t let him think this is going to be a regular practice because it’s never going to happen again. I’m not letting Tate anywhere near my naked body. His violation of my shower time pushed me to the brink of needing some serious self-care with my mechanical boyfriend. Not like that has anything to do with Tate’s looks or anything, by the way. That was just normal and healthy female stress relief from the pain of being around Tate. I can hear Tate moving around in the kitchen with the heavy footsteps of a black bear.

I hope he’s wearing a shirt. And fully clothed.

What the hell is wrong with him and why did he pull that move in the shower? Ugh. I push the thought out of my head. If I’m questioning Tate’s intentions, I have clearly been single for far too long.

I’m naked in bed now, gasping for breath in the dark because the snow is coming down so hard that the sky is black. Tate just called me out for dinner and I just had an intense orgasm in bed. I’m not thinking about dinner at all. I’m thinking about… You know what? It doesn’t matter what I’m thinking about. I’m just… not in the mood to strangle someone anymore. That feels good.

My chest moves slowly with my breath as I ignore Tate calling out to me again. But my blissed out state has driven me a little insane. Tate sounds hot. I roll around beneath the covers towards the edge of the bed as he calls my name again. Why is his voice so deep and sexy?

And why the hell did it feature so heavily in the fantasy that just made me cum? Again, Tate has no way of knowing that and maybe a dirty fantasy is exactly what I need to stop letting him bother me.

“Natasha? Did you hear me?” he asks. I hear him moving closer to the door and I’m glad he’s not looking at my face, so he can’t see how nervous I am. I try to sound sleepy and not suspicious so he doesn’t know what I was doing.

“I’m not hungry.”

Listen, my idea worked. For the first time in a while, I don’t want to smack the shit out of Tate. Even when he keeps talking.

“I find that hard to believe,” he says to my closed door. “This tastes delicious. You’ll like it…”

My eyes flicker to the black ceiling. What is going on here? I put effort into this spell to dispel my irritation with Tate and the only changes that have happened are completely irrelevant to my goals. This can’t be how he dies… Well, maybe he’s dumb enough that he made shrimp Alfredo while being allergic to shrimp. I want to see what happens.

“Fine,” I grunt reluctantly. “I’ll come eat.”

Terrorist barks a couple times and even if my bed is incredibly comfortable, and I don’t want to face Tate, he’s right – I’m hungry. I groan and get out of bed, slipping into a pair of sweatpants and throwing a GENESEO hoodie I stole from my ex-boyfriend on over my crop top. After Tate’s stunt in the shower, I don’t want him staring at my boobs.

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.

“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.”

“Maybe we should stop talking about this. We’re going to be stuck here all night. We don’t want to do anything stupid. I don’t do casual sex anymore. I’m not going to let my ex change the fact that I believe in love.”

“So you’re only going to have sex when you fall in love?”

We are failing to stay away from danger zone territory. I’m too full to argue with Tate and the wine in my glass is calling my name. Tate might have had his heart broken, but he’s a tall, muscular, attractive white man in a small town. He has women throwing their panties at him just because he’s a fireman. My love life is an utter failure and the last thing I want to do is confess to Tate how long I’ve spent avoiding men just to stay away from heartbreak.

“Do we have to talk about this?”

“No,” he says. “But I want to know how you feel.”

The throbbing in my thighs moves somewhere else. I don’t know if I can tell Tate my feelings. Not without more wine. The smartest move here is to lie to him and engage in profound self-preservation. Men will go to great lengths to deceive women they want to sleep with and the last thing I want to do is end up in bed with Tate only to find him gone in the morning.

Like I said — he’s not that hot.

“You don’t give a crap how I feel.”

Tate gives me an unpleasant smirk. I don’t smile back. This isn’t funny to me.

“Of course I care,” he says with that annoying seductive voice. “Why do you think I got us a dog?”

I scoff and roll my eyes. Did I actually expect this asshole to say something that makes sense?

“You got us a dog because you’re mentally ill.”

Tate laughs loudly, like there’s something funny about the concept of him having a mental illness. He desperately needs to get that thick head checked.

“If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”

The wine must be hitting me a little too hard because I blurt out my next words without considering the possible prison consequences. “Smothering you would help me sleep at night.”

I have to give it up. He hasn’t died from the shrimp which means he doesn’t have a shrimp allergy. Or a wine allergy. I’m the only one with my head in the clouds and Tate is more clear-headed than ever. I hate this. Yet another scamming ass social media spell. I need to start spending my money on something useful. Scratch cards might be a good investment.

“Smothering me?” Tate asks. “What does that mean?”

“You are so fucking dumb, white boy.”

He laughs again. I don’t like how confident he sounds. It makes me nervous. I’m supposed to be trapping Tate but suddenly, I feel… vulnerable.

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