Page 68 of The Cartographer

I expect his breathing to even out, the deep, mouth-open sounds of sleep and the heavy weight of his head in my lap. What black magic is it that people seem to gain weight when they’re unconscious? I swear it’s true. But instead of a dozing Hart cozying into my thighs, he shifts. And shifts again.

Tearing myself away from a client issue, I look down at him. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what’s with the fidgeting?”

“I…”

Hmm.

“Go on, Hart. You know by now you can tell me anything.”

“I had something to ask you. Not tell you.”

Even more interesting. Especially given the already intimate tenor of our evening. Not the sex and the kink, because sure, but the congratulatory dinner. Of all the friends and family he has, he wanted to celebrate withme.

“Go ahead, then.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, so I go through the motions of picking up my phone again, punching in the code. Sometimes it’s easier for people to spill if they think your attention’s divided. Doesn’t usually work with Hart, but this doesn’t seem like your everyday kind of request.Please, sir, I’d like to try the rubber flogger. Would you show me what a paddle feels like, sir?If he gets ticked off, it’s easy enough to let him know he has my undivided attention. Perhaps more of it than he would’ve liked.

My trick seems to work, though, and he takes a swill of air. “My sister’s having people over for a barbeque and watching the Raiders on Sunday. She asked if you’d like to come.”

Oh. Not that I never get invited to these things—in fact, I frequently double as a plus-one, though usually to formal events because I clean up well and already have my own tux. But backyard barbeques and—the Raiders play football, right?—football games aren’t usually the thing. Especially not with family. Which also means Hart’s told Kendra we’re seeing each other. Not just fucking. She had to know something was going on with him and someone at the rate I see him, but still.

I’ve had the experience of the blood in my veins running cold from fear and hot from lust, but this feels like something else entirely. A clement, pleasant warmth. As if it’s tea at the perfect temperature being pumped by my heart. It’s quite something, and I wouldn’t want to trade it for anything in the world.

He’s only told me I’ve been invited, though. He hasn’t said how he feels about this, which is the important part. Though Hart isn’t thoughtless or rude. Coarse sometimes, certainly, but not cruel. So I doubt he’s mentioning this to tell me I’m not welcome. Which means…

“So I…I’m asking you if you’d like to.”

I put my phone down on the bed, done with the pretense and needing to see his face, to glean every ounce of information I possibly can from the way his emotions arrange his features.

“Would you like me to?”

There’s hesitation and, if I’m reading him correctly, shyness. “I would.”

“Then I’m there.”

“But it’s a Sunday. You’re usually busy.”

“That’s true, but I don’t have to be busy every Sunday. Unless you don’t actually want me to go.”

“No, I do. I was trying to give you a way out if you wanted one. You don’t seem like much of a family man.”

“I adore my mother. I see her as often as I’m able. And India…she’s not blood, but she’s my chosen family. If you’re talking about kids, though, it’s true. I’m…” It’s not that I don’t like children. They seem well enough and certainly necessary for the perpetuation of the species, if you care for such a thing. So how to put this? “Inexperienced.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. You can avoid them if you want.”

“And what about me? How are you planning to introduce me?”

He shrugs, an awkward motion that rubs the sheet over my legs. “As the man I’m seeing.”

“And?”

“And what? What else do people need to know?”

“They’ll likely ask me what I do for a living, and I don’t think you want me telling them what I actually do.”

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