“I was handling the situation. There wasn’t any reason to bring you into it.”

Paul grabs a glass plate off the table and throws it against the wall. Atticus bolts across the room, taking shelter under the sofa as the broken shards slide down the wallpaper and scatter across the floor.

Throat tight, heart hammering against my ribs, all I can do is stand, frozen in place, as he picks up another plate and hurls it as well. Paul’s always been so sweet, so in control, it never occurred to me he’d lose his temper like this. Or that I’d be the reason his control slipped.

A third plate flies through the air.

“Exactly when were you planning on fucking telling me about it? After they burned this place down? After one of your employees is threatened? After you’re attacked?” His eyes flash as he looks around the room, his gaze finally landing on the couch and Atticus’s trembling tail beneath it. “When someone did something terrible to your dog?”

“Wait one damn minute.” My voice grows louder and stronger with each word.

Fury dilutes the anxiety churning in my stomach. Maybe he’s entitled to be angry with me, but that’s no excuse to scare me to death. “How dare you accuse me of putting everyone I care for in danger? I did exactly what I was supposed to do. I called the police every time I got a note, every time I found graffiti on my windows, and whenever I got a strange phone call or text. I updated my security system, just like they suggested. I took precautions. So don’t act like I’ve been reckless.”

“But you didn’t tell me.”

“Why does that matter?” As soon as I hear the words come out of my mouth, I know they’re the wrong ones, but I can’t take them back.

Paul reels back like I’ve struck him a physical blow.

“Why does it matter?” he repeats. “If you’d told me, I could have done something.”

“Like what? I’ve already updated my security system. All that money you have might help you make life easier, but it doesn’t fix everything. This is one of the things it can’t fix.”

“You might be right,” he says, his voice clear, steady, and completely devoid of the warmth I’ve come to expect from it. “But you still should have told me. You owed me that.”

“Why?”

“Not telling me means one of two things. One, that you don’t trust me. Or two, you don’t think I’m important enough to be allowed into both the good and bad parts of your world. Which is it?”

A sob catches in my throat. “Neither.”

Paul’s hands twist into fists. He closes his eyes, only to open them right away. “I can’t deal with this right now. I need to get out of here.”

He moves toward me, and for a brief shining second, I think he’s going to take me in his arms and kiss me, just like he always does. My mind swiftly spins a fairytale moment, where the second our lips touch, he’ll magically forgive me and we’ll enjoy a magical Christmas together.

But instead of reaching for me, he bends and picks up the leash I dropped.

“Atticus, come,” he yells.

My dog scoots out from his hiding place, his face covered in dust and cobwebs, and races to Paul. He whines with excitement about the unexpected adventure. Paul, who didn’t even know how to work a harness just a few weeks ago, now slides it over Atticus’s head like he’s been doing it his whole life, secures it, and gathers the leash in his hand.

“Let’s go.”

My dog happily dances ahead of him, leading him to and through the door.

I know I should let him go, give him time to cool off, but something, I’m not sure whether it’s pregnancy hormones or my own stubbornness, sends me to my feet. I stomp after him, yanking the door open just as he and Atticus reach the landing.

“While you’re up on your high horse and feeling pissy about me keeping something from you, you should consider that I’m not the only one around this place who’s been keeping secrets.”

Paul spins on his heel. Our gazes collide for a hot second before he digs into his coat pocket. He drags something dark, small, and square out of his pocket. Holding it in his cupped hand, he stares at it a moment.

“You want to know what I’ve been hiding? It’s this.” He tosses it lightly in my direction. I use both hands to catch it, and my fingers curl around it so tightly, the corner bites into my flesh. “I’ll let you decide if our secrets bear comparison.”

He turns and charges down the stairs, Atticus hot on his heels, before I can formulate a response.

With the sound of his footsteps thundering in my ears, I open my hand and study the dark burgundy jewelry box I’m holding.