Page 108 of Carver’s Craving

He rubbed his forehead. “What—” He swallowed. “What day is it?”

My gut clenched.

Styx handed him a sandwich. “December 22nd. You’re home just in time for Christmas.”

“Whose home?” That might’ve come out a little surly. Finally, he met my gaze. The dark-brown eyes appeared hollow. His dark skin looked loose and grayish. He…appeared unwell. If the doctors were worried, then they would’ve kept him in the hospital.

“My home. Where you’ll always be welcome. And I have a surprise for you.”

Not even a flicker of interest. “I don’t like surprises.”

My gaze caught Styx’s, and he winced.

This is not good. “Oh, do you have any prescriptions to fill?”

Styx shook his head. “The pharmacy here filled them. I have them in my pocket. I think we really are good to go.” As it to emphasize his words, he took a big bite of his sandwich.

Finally, Baxter bit into his.

Best present ever for Styx. Even though I suspected we were in for a rough ride.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Styx

One of my father’s favorite expressions, while building houses in Ontario in the winter, was that it was as cold as a witch’s tit. Or something like that. Well Abbotsford was that fucking cold.

I shivered as Carver drove us north. Toward Mission City.

“You guys cold? Let me jack up the heat.” He pressed a button and warm air blasted us.

I was on the verge of saying we were fine—because I didn’t want him to get too hot up front—but Baxter shivered. “Thanks—” I almost said baby.

Our gazes met in the rearview mirror for a fraction of a second.

“Whatever you need.” His attention went back to the road. “Did we decide if we need anything?”

I leaned my biceps against Baxter’s.

He pulled away. I couldn’t remember him ever pulling away. Don’t feel hurt. He’s going through something horrific. You don’t know how you’d react. Let him guide you. Those had been Quinton’s final words as Baxter had pissed behind the closed washroom door. He’s going to try to push you away. Don’t go far, though.

“I’m fine.” Baxter mumbled the words. “Thanks for this.”

The urge to wrap my arm around my friend nearly tore me in two. His expression gave away none of his thoughts, and while I thought he looked washed out under his normal umber skin tones, that could be the drugs, or fatigue, or stress, or anything. No way to tell. After ten years, I liked to believe I could read his moods. Today? Nothing.

“Whatever you need.” Carver turned right. “We have a room for you—”

“Because Carver and I share one now.” I shot a glance at Baxter—who was studiously staring out the window. “Oh, he has the cutest dogs. You’re not allergic to dogs, right? You loved Marta’s boxers.”

“Dumbest dogs ever.” Baxter muttered that.

“Oh God, yes.” I forced a laugh. “Well, Poppin and Walter are two of the smartest dogs I’ve ever met. Poppin’s going to bark her head off when she sees you—don’t take it personally. Walter doesn’t move a whole lot. So if you sit on the couch, he might just put his chin on your thigh.”

Finally, Baxter turned my way. And raised an eyebrow.

I shrugged. “Walter’s really adorable. He’s a senior dog. A Cavalier King Charles something something.”

Carver chuckled. But didn’t come to my rescue.