Page 85 of Carver’s Craving

Despite the construction dust, I pulled him closer. He’d told me that the people at the ranch didn’t care if he showed up a little worse for wear. Their clients ranged from the wealthy to those needing help to pay for the services. The ranch staff treated everyone the same and had a healthy respect for those who did tough jobs.

Ryan had mentioned being a client there—a fact he shared freely. He wanted anyone and everyone to know that going for counseling was not something to be ashamed of. If one person listened to his words and sought counseling for themselves, then he was certain his honesty was worthwhile. Interestingly, he’d met Simeon at the ranch. The handyman had been building a cabin on the property when Ryan had been a patient.

Ryan’s quiet words had prompted Carver to casually say he was meeting with Justin.

I’d never been so proud of him—and that was saying something. “You tired?”

He nodded. “I need a shower.”

“Great. I’ll put the noodles on to boil, and we’ll eat as soon as they’re ready. Maybe I can show you something when you’re in your pajamas?”

He rubbed against me. “You can always show me anything.”

I laughed. Then sobered a little. “I came up with something. From your mom’s writings. I’m nervous, but I really want to share. If it’s not going to upset you.”

His expression turned thoughtful as his eyes took on the distant quality they always did when he appeared to be remembering his mom. “I’d like that.” He kissed my cheek. “I’ll be back.”

With that, he turned to greet the pooches.

When he headed to the bathroom, I put the noodles in a pot. Then I tidied the papers into a semblance of order. Finally, I laid the song I was composing on the dining room table and rested my acoustic guitar on the chair beside me. I’d have to keep an eye on the noodles.

Baxter still hadn’t turned up.

I couldn’t bear to deal with the van.

Spike said he’d happily store it until the new year. That would be plenty of time to come to some arrangement. I didn’t have the money to pay for the repairs and storage. Carver had said repeatedly that he could easily cover everything, but I didn’t want to take money from him.

Finding employment in the new year was on my list. Preferably something I could do from here. I even considered contacting my old call center. The idea of selling walk-in bathtubs didn’t really appeal, but they had a high turnover and I’d been one of their best employees. With Carver’s laptop I could resume that job. I’d work part-time and still be able to compose, care for the dogs, and see that Carver had everything he needed.

Things were going so well that sometimes I had to pinch myself.

Except…buying Carver a present was damn near impossible. He’d lend me his SUV to go into Mission City—no hesitation. I just didn’t have much money. One hundred percent, he’d understand if nothing sat under the mini-Christmas tree he’d bought just for me—because he wanted me to have something emblematic of the season. I’d asked for a bit of tinsel and Christmas balls. He’d added a wreath on the door. As we neared the day, things looked more and more—

I shot over to the stove and turned the burner down, stirred the pasta, and prayed it would separate.

It did.

Whew. I prided myself on feeding Carver something warm and comforting, not overcooked because I wasn’t concentrating. I was going for a cozy feel.

All we needed was a bit of snow.

Or a lot. Enough to get us snowed in. That sounded perfect.

“I know not to scare the chef while he cooks.”

I laughed. “You scared me anyway. You’re very stealthy.” I eyed the noodles. “Can you stir occasionally while I play the song?”

“Of course.” He came up behind me and positioned himself so our bodies fitted together. He placed his hand on my sternum—something he did often. He’d once read most people carried their tension there. So his gentle touch soothed me, and now I did it for him. Reciprocal caring. Something we chose frequently. Doing things for him came as naturally as breathing—even though I’d never been like this before. Baxter and Frank had been independent guys. Carver was also…but he let me do all I could to make his life easier.

Finally, he pulled back. He took the wooden spoon from my hand. “Happy to stir.”

“Great.” I moved to the table, sat with the guitar, strummed, and then began to pick the strings as I warmed up. Then I added the words.

My voice wasn’t as strong as it had been at the height of our band’s success. If I was going to sing regularly, I’d need to give it some tender loving care.

The words flowed through me, and I resisted the urge to look at my lover. I needed to finish this before I took his measure. He’d stop me if he needed that. I had faith he’d be honest with me—especially if I was doing something that might hurt him. Or hurt other people.

When the last word was sung, and the last few strings plucked, I let the music die and took a breath before gazing up at him.