Page 9 of The Cartographer

Like her brother, she’s got a glass face. Which you’d think would’ve gotten steamrolled out of her after she started working at a bar, where it’s best to keep a neutral expression no matter what kind of shit goes down in front of you, but apparently not. Hart’s sister has clearly decided I’m going to be a pain in her ass, which may be true.

She raises an eyebrow and cocks a hip. “On what?”

“Do you make a better Manhattan than your brother?”

At the mention of her brother, her face softens and she rolls those cynical eyes with a lazy shake of her head. “A panda bear with a bottle of vermouth could make a better Manhattan than my brother. One?”

I lift my chin in assent as she sets another dried pint glass aside and gathers up what she’ll need to make the cocktail. Taking down the right bottles is a good start, and I watch her move easily. She has the same grace and muscular build as her brother, but also the ease of someone who’s tended bar for quite a while. It’s a treat to watch her select a respectable rye and a vermouth that will pair nicely with it and, god bless her, stir the concoction over ice for a good twenty seconds. Through, she sets the perfectly full glass in front of me, still grace personified.

“Do you want to open a tab?”

“No, thank you.” Since I can’t explain exactly why I’m here at all, I can’t make a night of this. Just the one and then I’ll be on my way—back to Matthew, back to my records.

“Then it’s thirteen.”

I hand over a twenty, wanting to tell her to keep the change because it’s seven meaningless dollars to me, but I’m not sure if her illness is common knowledge and I don’t want to get Hart in trouble for spilling to a stranger.

I do lay the two one-dollar bills on the table, and she drops a nod of thanks before scooping them up and tucking them into her pocket. I take a sip, and goddamn, it’s phenomenal. This woman makes a Manhattan the way it’s meant to be sipped.

Wanting to savor the divinity in liquid form this priestess has laid before me, and checking to make sure she’s not needed elsewhere imminently, I raise my voice so she knows I’m talking to her as she picks up yet another pint glass.

“So where’s your pinch mixer this evening?”

“Allie?”

I give a casual half-nod, half-shrug, trying to ignore the spark of jealousy that lights between my shoulder blades.Allie.That’s what his friends call him.

“You know my brother?” Suspicion creeps into her expression, and I watch her gaze crawl over my hair, my jaw, my tie, my suit. She’ll have the practiced eye of a person who relies on tips to earn a living. Apparently I don’t fit in with his usual crowd.

“Only from a few days ago.”

She nods thoughtfully, still drying that line of pint glasses. I’m tempted to ask her if she could give me a way to get in touch with him, but I’m not sure if he’s out to his family. Hell, I’m not a hundred percent certain he’s not straight. I’m willing to wager an ugly slur and possibly a threat to my physical safety he isn’t, but I won’t take that chance with his family. Because keeping secrets is what I do.

Something must occur to her, because she drops her drying cloth and points a triumphant finger at me. “You’re the guy who jumped over the bar, aren’t you?”

I trace the never-ending edge of the coaster under my glass. Interesting he described me that way. That he described me at all. Pleasing, in fact.

“He said you were cute.”

I highly doubt Hart would’ve described anyone as “cute,” but I’ll take it. And that answers another question.

“Did he, then? He’s pretty nice to look at himself.”

“Lucky you think so.”

“Why’s that?” Will she take my number? Pass it on to her brother? Tell him I stopped by and tease him about his admirer?

“He just walked in.”

She gestures with her chin to the entrance. Allie’s broad frame fills the doorway, backlit against the darkening sky. He waves at his sister without a second thought, then does a comical double-take when he sees me.

His face clears, and he walks over, eyeing me the whole time. I resist the urge to reposition myself in a way that would be more flattering. I don’t look so bad, though, perched on the bar stool with a drink in my hand.

“Hart.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, and I hope it’s because he’s resisting a smile.Yes, I remember you.

His sister has turned not-so-subtly toward the other side of the bar, studiously ignoring us. “It’s Walter, right?”

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