Page 38 of The Cartographer

“You are indeed. Although I don’t mind keeping you all to myself for an evening.”

Perhaps if I’ve recovered enough, I’ll have all of him as I was planning to.

I grab the room service menu, a pad of paper and a pen from the desk, and hand it to Hart.

“Pick whatever you’d like and write it down. I’ll call after I get dressed.”

Ten minutes later, I’m met with a Hart who hasn’t budged from the couch and is staring at the menu with crunched brows and the corners of his mouth turned down.

“What’s the matter? Couldn’t find anything you’d like? I’m sure they could throw together something you’d find acceptable.”

“It’s not that. It’s that I don’t feel good about ordering a thirty-dollar cheeseburger.”

I bristle some at his disobedience, but dismissing his concerns isn’t going to help anything. Nor would it make him feel any better to know the last hotel I was at, it would’ve been forty-two dollars.

“I can’t say I disagree with you, but on the plus side, the staff person delivering said excessively priced cheeseburger will be getting a nice tip that will help them pay their rent. If it bothers you, we could take a car to the nearest fast food joint and our entire meal will likely come out to less than that. Would you prefer that?”

He eyes me suspiciously, not closing the binder of over-priced cuisine. “You’d do that?”

“Sure. I like In-and-Out as much as anyone.”

His brows descend further until his eyes are merely slits. Incredibly dubious slits.

“Yes? Something I could help you with?” I’m starting to get hungry, and I’d like to get the Bay of Cheeseburgers over with.

“I’m trying to figure you out, that’s all.”

Good luck with that. “What about me?”

“For starters, you call yourself a control freak.”

“I am.”

“For a control freak, you sure do let me have my way a lot.”

How to put this? “There are some things I care very much about and other things that don’t matter. Where we eat dinner tonight is something I care about only insofar as I’d like to eat something and I’d like to see you eat something. Where we do it is of little consequence.”

“What’s something you do care about?”

“Right now? I’d like for you to wear your grey shirt instead of that one and I’d like for you to think about how I’m going to fuck your ass when we get back from dinner.”

Hart’s eyes have popped satisfyingly wide, and I can’t help how one side of my mouth draws up. “I also wanted you to stop looking at me as if I’m a specimen in a jar. Mission accomplished. Now let’s go.”

He shakes his head and stands, pulling his shirt over his head in one swift movement and heading toward the bedroom. When he comes back, he’s got his grey shirt on, the one that clings to his chest and biceps just so, and I smile.

“See? Now we’re all happy.” Cocking my head toward the door, I hold out an arm. “After you.”

*

I was correctabout how much our meal cost. Even between the Animal Style Double-Doubles, well-done fries, and shakes we ordered, it was less than one room-service cheeseburger. I’ll happily keep my mouth shut about how taking the car pushed us over that.

Hart slurps at the last of the Neapolitan milkshake in his cup for longer than necessary, and I ask him over the cheaply laminated tabletop if he’s nervous about something. He scowls at my mischievous questioning as he wipes his fingers on yet another paper napkin. We dispose of our trash and head out to where the car is waiting.

“I’d say fuck you, but—”

“That’s not going to happen. Ever.”

He should know that upfront, and I know I needed to be clear about that. Still, I don’t like the way his chin drops toward his chest as he draws back.

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