Page 58 of Carver’s Craving

“Of course not. I don’t want to chase him away.”

“Yeah. Or he might surprise you. But we can discuss that another day. Why don’t we make another appointment. If that works for you?”

I gazed around the room with its soothing yellow walls, reflected on all I’d said—and not said—and figured coming back was a really good idea. “Yeah…okay.”

Justin’s bright-green eyes shone. “Good choice.”

As I drove home, with Labrador fur on my thigh, I felt a calm envelop me.

I can do this.

Or so I told myself.

Chapter Sixteen

Styx

My beef stroganoff was perfect.

Carver arrived home at six-forty on the dot. Exactly the time he’d estimated.

Poppin and Walter—who’d been fed—greeted him with enthusiasm. Then sniffed his thigh excessively.

I arched an eyebrow.

“Therapy dog. Really sweet yellow Lab named Tiffany. I need a shower. Very nice of them to let me show up dirty.”

Since I didn’t know them, I couldn’t comment. But people worked hard and sometimes grabbing a shower wasn’t possible. “It went well?”

He nodded.

“Dinner’s ready when you are.” I offered a broad smile.

His returning grin was a little tired. Maybe a little wary. But absolutely genuine. Which I appreciated.

When Carver headed to the bathroom, I double-checked everything was perfect.

Poppin, from her perch on the couch, eyed me.

I plopped onto the couch between the two dogs and murmured, “I just want him to feel like…I don’t know…like I care.”

Walter licked my hand.

I stroked his soft fur.

Poppin, suffering from massive fear of missing out, tucked herself under my other arm and angled up so she could lick my chin.

Unbidden, I giggled. Then I sobered. “Okay, I think tonight’s the night to tell him.”

Naturally, neither dog had any idea what I was talking about. Hell, I knew—and still thought the entire notion was a little nuts. But this was something I really wanted to do. “I mean, if he boots me out then I’ll just move on…right?”

“Why would I boot you out?”

I blinked. “How fast was that shower?” I rose and turned to face Carver.

He wore only a towel around his waist. A very little towel. Before me was a work of beauty—all dark skin, scant, black chest hair that arrowed downward over muscled abs and just enough thighs below the hem to leave little to the imagination.

I swallowed. “Uh…?”