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What th e hell just happened? More importantly, why did I like it?

Yesterday, when Tate said his therapist told him to start dating again, there was a part of me that wanted to scream, “Pick me!” But then my brain caught up and was like, girlfriend, what are you doing!

? I don’t date, the main reason being the three men we just encountered.

I haven’t let another man put his hands on me in that way since that awful night.

At nineteen years old, my naive self was so excited for the freedom that came with college, only to have my world flipped on its head in year two.

We'll call it intimacy issues. I’m terrified of handing that power over to someone else.

The level of trust it requires? No, thank you, I need control and all that.

My therapist has her hands full with me.

Now, at twenty-eight, for some reason, my body didn’t go into flight mode like it normally does. It freaking melted under Tate’s touch, like it knew I was safe. My skin itches at the thought of what that could mean.

It’s the first time in almost a decade that my body has cried out for someone to pay attention to it.

To give it that safety and comfort it’s been so desperately trying to give itself.

Years of being in control of every part of it, what goes in it in the form of food.

How hard I push it in the gym. The pleasure I give it in whatever form that may be.

The common denominator? Me. I’ve been the one pulling the strings and making the decisions.

Yet, I’ve never felt fully “safe,” like I could just exist without being perfect, out of fear that I’d land myself in a similar situation .

But right now? Right now, my entire being wants to throw the car in park in the middle of the highway, pull him over the center console, and smash my lips against his again. Strictly for research purposes.

How are we supposed to spend an entire week together after that? How am I going to survive a week in close proximity to this man? This infuriating man who seems to have an obscenely hot protective side. One that I hate a little less right now.

Damn it, no. I default to focusing on the shame coursing through my veins, allowing myself to feel all the things before I call an emergency boxing session with Nelson tomorrow.

It’s the only logical way I can think of to work through this.

I pull out my phone and fire off two texts, one to Nelson, giving him my code word for I need to hit something. “Firecracker.”

Then, I texted Megan, my therapist, telling her something had happened and I’d take the first open appointment she had.

I’ve learned a lot from watching Hannah go through her rollercoaster of a journey.

The main lesson is that letting things ruminate isn’t good for anyone.

The best thing you can do is deal with it as soon as you can.

We have a pact now: we sit with the feelings for 12 hours, max, and then we face them.

Sometimes, that’s by ourselves; other times, that’s together.

Just another reason I’m not looking forward to her moving out.

“Do we need to go anywhere else, or are we done for that day?” His voice is surprisingly gentle, which does not help the situation.

I need grumpy, stand-off-ish Tatum. I look at him for a second, mentally running through the list in my head.

My head shakes; words don’t seem to work at the moment.

It’s a little after 7:30 pm, and I could use food, but I just want to go home .

He seems to understand and drives toward downtown, except when he gets to the exit that takes us to my apartment, he keeps going.

“You missed the exit,” I say, annoyance bubbling up in me as exhaustion threatens to drag me under.

I’m not driving; that was mistake number one.

Can’t control the direction of the car when you’re not behind the wheel.

“No.” His tone leaves no room for argument. Ahh, there he is. I can handle this. At least that's what I’m telling myself. “I’m taking you somewhere to get you out of your head.”

I’ve semi-convinced myself that I can handle whatever this detour is as he pulls into an underground parking garage of one of the luxury lofts in the area.

He doesn’t say anything; he just parks, throws the door open, and gets out.

His heavy feet stomp rhythmically against the concrete as he makes his way to my side of the car.

I don’t even have my seatbelt off by the time my door is pulled open, and he’s offering me a hand.

The second my palm slides into his, it’s abundantly clear that I was horribly wrong. I cannot handle this.

“Tatum, where are we?”

“My place.” My eyes narrow as I let that sink in.

“Mighty presumptuous of you to assume I want to go home with you.”

He grunts as he grabs my bag out of the car, hiking it over his shoulder as he walks toward the elevator. “Move it, Tink,” he grinds out.

I fight to keep a smile off my face at the fact that the walking storm cloud gave me a nickname and has used it more than once.

Oh, and I’m at his house. Who woulda freaking thought.

Maybe I’m dreaming. I’ve disassociated so much that my subconscious is tellin g me all the things it really wants.

Wait, no. That would be worse than reality.

I don’t want anyone, especially not this guy.

We walk inside his apartment, and it’s so Tatum. I mean, technically Zeke, too. I laugh at how well it fits the two of them. “What?” he says as he puts my purse down on the island.

I look around the industrial-style apartment, the sports posters hanging on the dark brick walls in the living room, the Pele′ book at the bottom of a stack of soccer literature sitting on the coffee table.

The dark brown leather couch looks broken in and welcoming.

Black pipes run across the ceiling, and dark wood covers the kitchen.

I lose it; bending over at the waist, I let go of all the tension I’ve held onto for the past hour.

Honestly, at this point, I feel like the guy from Arrested Development who cries into a soap bar in the shower.

How is this my life? “I’m sorry. Your apartment is just the perfect depiction of your personality. Dark and gloomy.”

Except it’s not. It’s homey, inviting in a way that only makes sense where this man is involved.

Not that I’ll admit that out loud. When I finally look back up at him, the trademark scowl isn’t there.

Instead, there’s a look that I can only describe as a confused puppy.

His head is tilted to the side, face relaxed as he watches me.

“Are you secretly a vampire?” I ask, trying to diffuse the urge to launch myself at him.

I think I’m hallucinating when an actual smile breaks out across his face. I’m talking teeth and everything. Holy freaking moly. I’m so thankful he doesn’t do that more often because I would simply melt into a puddle.

“You caught me.” He winks. “Let’s keep that between us, though.” His smile turns predatory as he walks toward me. My brain tells my body to run, but my feet stay planted where they are. H is hand snakes up the side of my neck, landing on my nape as he pulls me closer to him.

“What are you doing?” I ask as my head angles back so I can look at him, the fire burning in his eyes is unmistakable.

His forehead meets mine as he exhales. “I don’t know what those guys did,” he whispers, “but I’m not letting you go home carrying that weight.

” We hold each other in a stare-off that should be uncomfortable, would be uncomfortable if it were anyone else.

But here? Now? It’s like he’s seeing all the broken pieces of me.

My eyes roam over his face, his dark eyelashes frame his heavy-lidded eyes as they stare into the deepest, darkest parts of me.

The parts I’ve kept hidden from even my best friend.

He doesn’t run, instead, he pulls me further into his orbit.

Like my demons call to his, recognizing each other, dancing together under the cloak of darkness.

He pulls back and grabs a set of keys off the counter before grabbing my hand. “Come on.” He pulls me back toward the door, causing me to stumble briefly before I fall in line behind him.

Back in the elevator, I stand on the opposite side, putting as much distance between us as I can. I refuse to look at him because, dang it, if I did, I’d climb him like a tree. A feeling that is so foreign to me, it’s easy to ignore.

Once we get to the parking garage, he leads me away from where he parked my car to his... Oh no. “Hard pass. I am not getting on that death machine.” I point at his motorcycle, my head shaking vehemently.

He laughs, actually laughs. Who is this person?

Did the real Tatum get kidnapped? Abducted by aliens, maybe?

He puts the key in and turns, bringing my attention to his strong hands; the bike roars to life under his touch.

The sound is as exhilarating as it is terrifying.

The way he straddles the bike brings my attention from his arms to his thighs.

Damn, he’s got a killer posterior chain.

Nice round butt, well-defined hamstrings, and calves you could rest a glass on.

Those jeans leave very little to the imagination.

Honestly, they might be painted on him. “Get on,” he says like he’s not asking me to sign my death warrant.