Page 49 of Shattered Promise

“I know,” Mason says. Simple and certain, like he’s cataloged this about me already and kept it somewhere close.

Theo whines—not fussy but probably hungry for more than just samples.

Mason nods toward the end of the block, where the food trucks are parked in a lazy half-circle. "Want to grab something to eat?"

"Yeah, I could eat."

"What do you feel like?" he asks, scanning the trucks as we get closer.

"I'm good with whatever."

"Let's split a few things. We can try more that way," he murmurs.

He doesn’t wait for me to agree, just points at the first truck—smoked brisket and pickled slaw, painted in curling blue script—and heads that way. I trail, the stroller wheels bumping over uneven sidewalk, my hand unconsciously hovering near Theo’s head as we weave through the crowd. The food lines are long, but the air’s so thick with the smell of food that waiting feels less like a chore, more like an appetizer.

I stand off to the side, crouching to unzip Theo’s bag and fish out a squeeze pouch. I’m not sure what Mason’s going to come back with, or if it’s anything that Theo will eat. He seems like a good eater, but you can’t go wrong with a fruit and veggie pouch.

By the time Mason comes back, I’m wiping applesauce off Theo’s chin with the edge of a wipe. I stand, brushing stray grass from my knees.

He’s balancing a tray stacked with more food than we could possibly eat: brisket sandwiches, some kind of flatbread, anda few things on sticks. There’s a side of bright pink pickled something and a mason jar of lemonade tucked in the crook of his arm.

I blink at the haul and try not to laugh at the sheer volume of food, but he catches the twitch of my lips.

“It’s called sampling,” he deadpans. But his smirk gives it away.

“Huh, looks more like a feast.”

I reach out my hands to grab the plate, but he shrugs it out of my reach.

“I got it. Here, try this first.” He holds out what looks like little dough balls on a stick, steam curling from them.

“What even is that?” I laugh, already leaning in.

Mason shrugs, eyes glinting with mischief. “Some kind of Danish pancake, I think. The guy said it’s tradition here.” He nudges it closer, like maybe if he pushes it right up to my lips I’ll just open up on instinct.

Well, joke’s on him because that kind of stuff works on me. I settle my hand on his wrist as I lean in and eat a pancake on the end of the stick. Soft dough, slightly crunchy crust, and filled with custard.

I hum my appreciation as I eat it.

“Good?” Mason murmurs.

I look up, surprised to find his gaze dark and trained on me.

“So good,” I mutter, my heart thudding too quickly. “You should try one.”

I pop the next one off the stick and hold it up, inches from his mouth. For a second, I’m sure he’ll just take it from my fingers. But he leans in and bites half of it, eyes locked on mine and lips grazing my thumb and index finger.

The heat that flares up my neck has nothing to do with the food truck behind us.

“Not bad,” he says after a moment, the corner of his mouth curling up. Then he drops the pancakes-on-a-stick to the plate and reaches up to catch my wrist. He holds my gaze as he brings my hand—and the pancake—back to his mouth. He licks a smear of custard from the side of my finger before eating the rest of the pancake. My pulse skips, hard, and my brain blanks out for a half-second.

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. I just blink, too fast, like I need time to reboot.

Because if I don’t, I’ll do something stupid. Like lean in and kiss him. Or maybe worse: let myself believe any of this is real.

He releases my wrist, and we get to work on the plate together, like nothing happened. We stand while we eat, taking advantage of the dappled shade of a white tent while the festival blares on around us.

Mason tears a brisket sandwich in half, handing the larger piece to me without comment. The bread is soft, the meat smoky and rich, and the pickled slaw bites through all of it with a sweet-sharp crunch.