Christmas Eve

Nine days. That’s how much time has passed since I learned I was pregnant and Paul inserted himself back into my life.

Steam from the cup of raspberry tea I’m holding bathes my skin as I stare at the wall calendar beside the fridge and wonder just how the hell Paul managed to turn my life completely upside down in what really isn’t any time at all.

The first few days were pure heaven.

At night, I did the books while he worked the bar and, after the last customer went home, he carried me upstairs and make love to me until I couldn’t see straight. And then once more, until I couldn’t hear much, either.

We slept until late in the morning, rising when we felt like it instead of when an alarm clock told us to and spent the day doing the kind of things normal couples do. Cook breakfast, walk Atticus, talk about the past, and plan for our baby’s future.

It was pure bliss.

The only blip in our happy little world was another bout of graffiti on my windows, this message aimed at both me and Paul, leading Liam to believe that whoever was harassing me was also watching the place.

And the text messages. How could I forget them?

They are bad. Really bad. Not only aere they becoming more and more threatening, but I’ve started getting eight or nine of them a day. Liam keeps trying to trace the number but they keep leading back to a number of different burner phones. He’s started to talk about staking out the stores that sell such phones and seeing which customers match the description of my window artist.

But otherwise, life has been about as good as it could get. I’ve never been happier.

Finally, I felt safe admitting, just to myself, that I’ve fallen hard for Paul.

Of course, that’s when he got weird.

He started taking off for hours and hours at a time. Which wouldn’t bother me. No one can stand to live in another person’s pocket, no matter how much they enjoy their company. Eventually everyone needs some time and space to themselves. I get that.

What bothers me is that Paul refuses to tell me what he’s up to, or where he’s going, and he’s suddenly easily distracted. I want to trust him, but it’s getting harder.

And now. With the bar closed for the night, Paul and I agreed to get together with some of the employees to go caroling. We’re supposed to leave—I glance at my watch—in about twenty minutes and no Paul.

I tried calling him but it was directed straight to voicemail.

Footsteps sound in the landing. Atticus darts across the floor, nearly falling over his own feet in his haste. Well, that clears up any question as to who is on the other side of the door. My dog has fallen even harder for Paul than I have, and all but turns himself inside out whenever my lover is around.

I turn away from the calendar as Paul pushes the apartment door open.

“Where have you been?” I demand. “We need to leave in-”

Paul makes it across the living room, into the kitchen and has me pinned against the fridge, his mouth on my mine, his tongue practically touching my tonsils, before I finish the sentence.

I rise up on my toes and loop my arms around his neck, hanging on for dear life as I return the kiss. It doesn’t matter how mad I am at him, one touch and nothing else matters.

We tear at each other’s clothing. Sighs mingle, bodies strain together.

Once my jeans are on the floor and his are around his ankles, he grabs the back of my thighs, hooking them over his hips. I press my heels into his ass as he enters me in one smooth thrust.

While his hips flex and buck, he buries his face in my breasts, flicking his tongue across my nipple in a move that both torments and excites me.

Behind me, the cold fridge strikes a delightful counterpoint to the heat that threatens to burn me up from the inside out. Sobbing, I writhe against Paul, straining against him as intense spasms rock my body.

Boneless and breathless, we slide to the floor. Paul gathers me close to his chest and I rest my cheek against his heartbeat. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” I whisper and kiss his cooling skin.

“Wasn’t it?” Paul strokes my hair.

“No. I was mad at you.”

“It’s Christmas Eve. A day that’s supposed to be all about love.”

He’s right, but that doesn’t ease the niggling sense of unease that pushes against the back of my mind each time he refuses to tell me what he’s doing.

“It’s just that I don’t understand why you won’t tell me why you keep taking off.”

Paul moves away from me and pulls his pants on. “You’ll find out soon. I promise.”

“Really?” It’s the closest he’s come to telling me anything.

“Really,” he repeats. “Now, aren’t we supposed to be meeting people? Walking up and down streets and torturing people by singing sappy songs in off-key voices?”

“Crap.” I get up so fast I slip on the floor.

Paul grabs my elbow, steadying me. “Take it easy,” he murmurs.

I reach up and back, exploring my hair. Our session against the fridge has left it a tangled mess.

“I need to get cleaned up. You get Atticus into his coat and booties and we’ll meet at the door in five minutes.”

It takes a little longer than I expected, but in nine and a half minutes, I rush out of the bathroom and find Paul and Atticus, dressed and waiting for me.