Page 67 of The Cartographer

Chapter Twenty-One

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Stepping out ofthe shower after I’ve finished up with my Pilates—because it is, in fact, a Thursday—my phone rings. Not an unusual state of affairs, so I pick it up with my towel wrapped around my waist while I study myself in the half-fogged mirror. Not bad for thirty-eight, I don’t think.

“This is Rey.”

“Hey, it’s Hart.”

Oh. My reflection looks surprised and stands up straighter. Hart rarely calls me; it’s almost always the other way around. Me issuing invitations to parties, to go out, to come over, and him saying yes or no depending on his mood. Mostly yes these days. Calling me, though? That’s new.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I slide my fingertips across my chin, my jaw, cautious curiosity building. Perhaps he’s calling with his own invitation? That would be novel. Like a foolish kid picking out their outfit before they’ve even been invited to the big dance, I start running through my mental calendar to see if there would be anything standing in the way of me accepting.

“I wanted to tell you I’m not going to be able to see you as much anymore.”

That’s why you’re not supposed to count chickens before they hatch. Although whatever this is, I should be grateful. Perhaps he’s started dating someone. Which is what I want. I like it when that happens, when people move on of their own accord. Which doesn’t explain the thing poking me in the side. But I’ll keep my response neutral.

“I see.”

He pauses, as though he was expecting more, and I rub a pair of fingers over my brow bone. He didn’t give me much to work with, so I don’t know what he needs from me right now. Luckily, he finds his tongue before I have to formulate a plan.

“I…I got a job. Start tomorrow. It’s temporary, construction, but it pays enough I can start looking for a place again. So I’ll be busy.”

The corner of my mouth pulls up, and honest happiness rolls over me. He’s perhaps using the pretense of not being able to see me so much anymore to call, but I think what he wanted was to share this with me. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

I bite back my offer to help him find an apartment because he wouldn’t like that. If he has more good news in the future he wants to share with someone, I want him to call me.

“It’s good too, because it won’t interfere with watching the kids or with Kendra’s classes, so…”

So what? I know he’s not waiting for my approval, would probably bite my head off if I offered it. Is this his way of saying he doesn’t want to see me at all? Why wouldn’t he have led with that? Or stopped answering my calls? Could have, though I’d like to think he wouldn’t.

Another possibility occurs to me. I don’t want to overstep if this isn’t what he’s after, but Kendra doesn’t work or have school on Thursdays, so he might, possibly, be calling because…

“Well, if you’re not busy, I’d love to take you out to celebrate. There’s a new Persian place I’ve been wanting to try. Then we could bring the party back to my place?”

“That would be great. Do you have clients or could you pick me up at Kendra’s at seven?”

No clients, no nothing. I’d been planning to catch up on some personal correspondence and phone calls, but that can all wait. I don’t think a one of them would mind being neglected for another day if it means I get to spend time with Allie.

“That works for me. I’ll see you then.”

“Cool.”

Then there’s silence on the other end of the line, and my reflection stares back at me, looking smug as fuck.Yeah, yeah, you smug bastard, we all know you’re going to have a good time tonight.

*

I’ve just fuckedthe ever-loving hell out of Hart after I had my way with him downstairs. For someone who was so reluctant to bottom, he sure has got the hang of it. And my, does he ever suffer beautifully.

He’s not suffering now, though. Not even a little bit. We’re lying together in my bed, me propped up against pillows and him with his head in my lap while I feed him. I don’t usually eat in bed since I’m rather fastidious when it comes to my own personal space—I like it quiet, simple, clean—but this fits. Allie has no need to know exactly how uptight I am about things that have no consequence. The color of his socks, sure, but knowing I have a thing about stains and crumbs in my sheets? He can do without.

Blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, dark chocolate chips, and almonds. These are the things I offer to him, that he takes between his lips and savors, that I can feel his jaw work around as he turns to look up at me.

In between feeding him from three separate bowls—wouldn’t want the chocolate or almonds to get wet from the freshly washed fruit after all, and yes, fine, I like controlling even what flavor he’ll have in his mouth next—I’ve picked up my phone and not put it down again. He doesn’t seem to mind, exhausted as he is. In between bites, I run my hand over his scalp, sometimes brush a thumb behind his ear.

The next time I offer him an almond, he shakes his head. “I’ve had enough. Thank you, though.”

I eat it myself and then let my hand drift to caress him again. While I sometimes miss having hair to grab onto and stroke, I’ve become accustomed and rather attached to the smoothness of Allie’s head when he’s shaved that morning and the barest of prickles when he hasn’t.

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