Page 23 of Carver’s Craving

“Dude.” I laughed. “You used to live in Toronto. How are there too many people in Mission City?”

“Well, sometimes one other person is too many. Poppin and Walter are all the company I need.”

“Okay, but you said you’ve got a job and you’re away from home at lunchtimes.”

“Ah.”

I rubbed my nose for the umpteenth time.

He gestured toward the glove box. “Tissues inside.”

I wanted to argue, but my nose was dripping. “Thanks.” I nabbed a tissue and blew my nose. And now…I had a dirty tissue.

“There’s a garbage bag directly behind your seat. Just toss it there.”

“I guess that’s better than me shoving it in the pocket of your coat.”

“That was my thinking.” He eased the SUV to the right and onto a street where I actually spotted clusters of houses and some businesses.

“Oh, this is the street we drove along yesterday. With all the townhouses.”

“Yep. It’s Cedar Street. The street pretty much runs through the center of town and the Connector leads to the highway. That’s where we’re headed now.”

“Fifties?” I was trying to keep up.

“Good memory.”

“I might’ve searched on the internet last night for the place. I’ve never seen so many flavors of milkshakes. Including, I might point out, black licorice.”

Carver made a retching sound.

“Just for that, I should order one.”

“Well, just for that, I’m definitely not kissing you.” He froze, staring straight ahead.

I stilled. Why did he say that? Because he’s joking? Or is he thinking about kissing me? Because I’ve sure been thinking about kissing him. But I’d put a tight lid on those thoughts. I was staying with him on his good graces—making a move would be so classless.

Tacky.

Rude.

And so totally hot.

“I…uh…” Carver swallowed. “That came out wrong.”

I smacked his biceps playfully. “I would never expect anyone to kiss me after I consume black licorice. But I’d enjoy myself. Personally, I thought the unicorn milkshakes looked amazing. But I’m saving room for that French toast platter. I’m starving.” And the price wasn’t completely unreasonable. I was well-aware Carver was footing the bill.

“Their French toast platter is epic. Especially when the bacon is crispy.”

“What are you having?”

“I think an omelet with sourdough bread.”

“Oh.” I squinted. “With all those choices?”

He smiled. “Sometimes I’m famished and sometimes I’m mildly hungry. Today is the latter.”

God, I hope it’s not because of money. Taking care of two special-needs pups couldn’t be cheap. Plus, I’d scoped out real estate in his neighborhood. Most of the properties for sale were on acreage. By my estimation, Carver’s lot was smaller. Still, how he afforded it was beyond me. “This the place?” Perhaps a silly question since the name Fifties hung over the entrance.