Page 8 of Carver’s Craving

My jaw dropped. “Uh…?”

“I told you it’s rustic.” He pulled close to the house and cut the engine. “Let’s get the groceries inside, and I can give you the ten-cent tour. Well, more like the thirty-three-second tour.”

No doubt he means that literally. Still, I got out of the car, went around to the hatch, and grabbed a bunch of new-looking cloth bags. “Hey, do they give you these every time you shop? You must have so many.”

“Yes, they do give them to me. Well, rather, I pay for them. Then I donate them to a local charity shop. Who always appreciates them. I suppose I could take them with me to the grocery store and pack the bags myself.” He shrugged. “I just don’t like hanging around. Even if the staff are super friendly.”

Together, we walked to the front door.

I half expected it to be unlocked, but he did use his key to unlock it, then we headed inside.

The inside was a massive space that wasn’t conveyed by the front of the…house? Cabin? Cottages were on lakes in Ontario—but this sort of reminded me of my grandparents’ place in Muskoka.

Windows soaring two stories lined the back of the cabin. The stunning view was of a magical forest. Sunlight streamed between the trees, creating a lush canopy of green. “The leaves haven’t fallen yet?” We were already in mid-November.

“Most have. I’ve raked them up.” Carver moved to the kitchen. “Lots of evergreens back there.”

This great room was cavernous—kitchen, dining table, as well as a cluster of mismatched couch and chairs facing a gas fireplace with a massive big-screen television above it.

“Wicked.”

Carver, who had just put the grocery bags on the counter of the kitchen and appeared to be headed back outside, gave me an indecipherable look. Then he continued on his journey.

I added the bags I’d brought to the pile on the floor and followed him back outside.

He’d managed to grab the rest of them, so I hefted my duffel bag over my shoulder and closed the door and the back hatch.

After he hit the remote to lock the SUV, Carver headed back inside.

I followed—still looking around. I spotted his neighbor’s house—although some distance away, and a row of short shrubbery was, I assumed, the border between the properties. The house across the way, though, was far more stately. And, if I had to guess, newer.

“Hey, shut the door.” Carver’s voice carried from inside. “I want to let the dogs out of the bedroom.”

Okay, that got me hustling inside. I dropped my bag by the front door, toed off my boots, and headed toward the hallway where, I guessed, the bedrooms were. Probably a bathroom too. He’d said I’d have my own room. Since I didn’t spot a loft, I assumed the bedrooms were next to each other on the far side of the house.

The clatter of nails on the hardwood floor reached me before the pooches did.

First to arrive was a terrier of some kind. Or at least that was what I assumed. I didn’t know dogs. The thing was cute. Black, white, and gray. And it started barking its head off.

I grinned. “You’re a spitfire.”

Carver reappeared with a small white-and-brown dog in his arms. “That’s Poppin.” He held up the dog in his arms. “This is Walter.” He turned to the dog who continued to bark. “Hey, Poppin, give it a rest.”

Apparently Poppin was not interested in giving it a rest. She continued to bark—all the while eyeing me.

I held up my hands. “I’m not the enemy. Will you let me pet you?”

She stopped, cocked her head, then started up again.

Carver put Walter on the couch, then headed toward the barky girl. He crouched so he was more or less on her level. “Maybe can we stop? He’s a friend.” He held out his hand.

She stopped barking, sniffed his hand, then went back to giving me the evil eye. She did not, thank God, start barking again.

“You’re a first.” Carver stood.

“First what? First person she stopped barking at?”

He chuckled. “Uh, no. First person who’s ever visited.”