Chapter 7: Natasha

What the hellwas 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?”

“Yes,” Tate says. He looks genuinely sad. I never thought I would see this side of him and my heart does a weird little flutter as I hear him start talking. “I fought as hard as I could in court but I was going through a rough time and she got full custody.”

I don’t even notice that I stop thinking about the curse and I just want information. It’s not like I genuinely care about Tate. Tea is tea…

“What type of rough time?”

My nosy ass can’t help myself. I shouldn’t press him, but there’s just a part of me that must know. I didn’t know Tate had secrets. He doesn’t seem like the type. Everyone about him seemed simple and up front. Until this.

I guess I don’t pay enough attention to small town gossip. Tate glares. His face looks even more handsome like that. I suppress the thought and try to focus on what he’s saying despite the wine running through my bloodstream like a wild mare.

“No way you lived here your whole life and never heard what happened,” he says, a flush of shame coming over his face. “You don’t have to act like you don’t know.”

Despite what Tate thinks, he isn’t the center of everybody’s universe. But it’s interesting that he exhibits some embarrassment. I didn’t know he had that range of emotions.

“I stay out of white people’s business.”

Tate gives me a disapproving look like he just heard me say a slur.

“It was all over the news.”

There’s that shame again. Interesting.

“I missed it.”

“I was in prison for manslaughter,” he says calmly. I don’t want to believe him, but the expressions on his face and the slow way he took to tell me force me to believe that what he’s saying is very real.

I have the weirdest fucking response. I burst into laughter. I can’t even fully tell you why I burst into laughter. It’s just like… you know when you have a bad vibe about someone and then you get proof that your instincts were correct the entire time? That’s how I feel about Tate’s announcement. It’s crazy that he somehow made it from prison to working for the fire department in what seems like record time.

“Did I say something funny?” Tate asks, his face darkening from my disrespectful hyena laugh.

“I knew you were fucked up.”

My gloating and my swimming head both make my emotions for Tate extremely confusing. The more I can push him away, the better.

“Thank you, Natasha,” he says, his voice tightening. “I didn’t do it, by the way. But I’m glad to know you have so much faith in me.”

Hmph. Well that I don’t believe.

“If you didn’t do it, how did you end up in prison?”

“If I did it, why would I be out instead of still locked up?”

“White privilege.”

He scoffs at me and keeps giving me that dark expression, like I’m pushing his boundaries and crossing lines with him.

“Life isn’t that simple,” Tate says. “You must know that.”

“Okay. Then what happened.”

“My ex set me up. After nine months in prison, the cops learned the truth, but the court only had the power to set me free, not reverse the custody agreement. Because I plead not-guilty, I signed a clause in the custody agreement that said I couldn’t appeal it. I had to wait six more months before I got out, even after they knew the truth.”

Woah. That is goddamn crazy. And maybe it explains a few things. Like why Tate keeps to himself. Why he barely talks to people around town. Why he sleeps, works, and goes to the gym instead of parading women through our apartment. I’ve never met a man with trust issues. But that’s totally Tate, isn’t it? Weird. It feels like I’m looking at a very tame grizzly bear and I’m scared as fuck to ruin the moment.

“That’s ridiculous,” I blurt out, most likely ruining the moment despite my efforts. It’s been a while since I’ve been around a man who looks like Tate and it has been even longer since I let my guard down enough to drink this much wine.

“Yeah,” he says, moving his arms again and drawing even more attention to his biceps. He really puts in work at the gym.

“Maybe one day when my son is eighteen… but until then, I’ll stay out here and wait,” Tate continues. “Just hope he chooses to come home and find his dad. Terran thinks I’m crazy and I ought to move on but I don’t know… something about this place is magical. He’ll know to come back and find me here.”

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.

He carries me across the apartment as I scream, straight into my bedroom. I keep screaming as Tate shuts the door behind him and the lock clicks.

I’m fucked.

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