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At dawn the next morning, Ashton showed up with takeout from a famous old bakery—pastries and savory breakfast items, the works.

As I reached for the steamer bag of croissants, he smacked my hand away, hard enough to leave a red mark.

"Aren't you the one who likes the eggs Benedict? I got those just for you."

It took me a beat to put it together. The croissants were for Juliet.

I couldn't help myself. "Ashton. We've been together seven years. You don't know I'm allergic to eggs?"

His face flickered. He stood up abruptly, voice arctic. "Stop looking for things to fight about. Eat them or don't."

As he was heading for the door, I walked back to the bedroom and came out carrying a small shopping bag.

"When you see Juliet today, do me a favor and return this to her."

When he saw the lace lingerie inside, something startled flickered through his eyes.

He opened his mouth, like he was going to explain.

But seeing that I didn't have the slightest interest in arguing with him, he just said, "I'll tell her to stop leaving her things everywhere."

"Sure."

Registering my flat mood, Ashton offered to drive me to work.

Seven years together. Through every kind of weather. This man—always drawing a line between work and private life—had never once driven me to the office or picked me up.

Juliet, on her very first day on the job, got door-to-door service.

My hand shook. My fork clattered to the floor. I bent to pick it up.

By the time I straightened, Ashton was already at the front door.

"Something urgent came up at the office," he said without looking back. "I'll drive you next time."

The door clicked shut.