Page 17 of The Cartographer

I perch next to Hart on a stool and wonder what the hell to say.

“Did you sleep okay?”

He nods, his mouth full, and doesn’t speak until he swallows. “That’s a comfy bed you got there.”

“You’re welcome to it any time you like.”

His next bite hovers between the plate and his mouth, and he checks to see Matthew’s got his back to us.

“I don’t need your fucking charity.”

I want to snap back it’s not charity if he’s doing me a fucking favor. Because he would be. It would ease my mind to know he’s safe in the bed next door, or if I get very lucky, safe in mine. That is unlikely to be helpful, so I take a different tack.

“No, you don’t. You’re a competent, resourceful, responsible man.”

That clearly wasn’t what he was expecting me to say because he eyes me suspiciously as Matthew sets a plate in front of me.

I start to cut the pancakes into a neat grid because it will help me concentrate. It’s frustrating the hell out of me I don’t know Hart well enough to get him to do what I want. Is this what life is like for the general public? Because I’ve got to say, I’m not a fan.

“I’m glad you stayed for breakfast,” I offer, stabbing some banana and a small stack of fluffy pancake on my fork. Matthew really does make good pancakes. Never burnt on the outside or raw on the inside. Perfect. “When you’re ready to go, I’d be happy to drop you off somewhere or Matthew could take you.”

Sure, I’ve offered, but I don’t actually want him to choose Matthew over me. I would understand why he might, though. If he wants to go back to his truck, he can tell Matthew that’s what it is: his truck. Whereas with me, I know it’s more like his home and he hates that I know that.

I chew and swallow, the syrup sweet and sticky in my mouth, and wash it down with milk. Of course Matthew’s set my coffee down as well, but darling boy knows I like to cut my sweets with milk. We eat in silence for a while, and though it’s driving me absolutely crazy—talk to me already—I let Allie alone. I do know that much about him. Pushing won’t get me anywhere, and I know other people like that. Which reminds me, I need to call India today.

After about fifteen maddening minutes during which he eats more pancakes than I eat in a month, Allie pipes up. “My sister texted earlier. Asked me to come over for lunch and watch the kids this afternoon. I’ve got to grab my truck first, so if you don’t mind going to Oakland—”

“I don’t.” Yes, I have a shit ton of things to catch up on, but at this second, time with Hart seems priceless. Partly because I don’t know how much I’ll get of it. More of a chance to study him, figure him out before I completely blow this. Maybe get my own head in order. What exactly do I want from Hart? Besides everything?

“Okay. Then we probably need to leave around eleven-thirty. Is that okay?”

A quick glance at the clock and some mental math and… “Works for me.”

*

An hour anda couple of showers later, we’re driving across the long bridge into Oakland.

“So what do you do, anyway?”

This isn’t my favorite question, but it’s inevitable. I check my rearview mirror to switch into the left lane because the Hyundai in front of me is going so slow I’ll probably turn fifty before we get to the other side of the Bay.

I’m not ready to share the completely candid answer—I rarely am, except in certain company—so I go with something that’s the truth but won’t scare the ever-loving shit out of him.

“I’m a life coach.”

“Must be a pretty sweet gig.”

“I enjoy it.”

“What do you like about it? I mean, besides the serious bank you must be making?”

I have to laugh. “What makes you think life coaching is particularly lucrative?”

“Maybe it has something to do with the $90,000 car I’m riding in.”

“Touché. Well, yes, a lot of my clients pay me quite handsomely for services rendered, although I do have some who aren’t wealthy. However, if I only had that to rely on, I wouldn’t live the way I do. It’s family money.”

I dart a glance at him in time to see Hart pull a face, and I try not to take it personally. On the other hand, I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not. It tends to make people feel more insecure than they ought to, and if I admit I’m a trust-fund baby, it seems to set us on a more equal playing field. Like, yes, of course if you’d been handed a big old vat of cash, you too could live this way. Just stupid luck.

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