Page 51 of Shattered Promise

He leans in, voice pitched low. “Never knew you to throw a bet, Trouble.”

I shrug, but can’t keep the smile off my face. “Maybe I’m full of surprises.”

Mason’s eyes flick to my mouth, then back up, and for a second the festival noise warps around us and it’s just him, the glint of sun off his cheekbones, the heat prickling at my collarbone.

A beat passes. Two. Then a shadow crosses Mason’s face, and in the next breath he straightens, reaching for the stroller like it’s an anchor. He turns to the attendant and thanks him.

And I try not to be disappointed that he didn’t kiss me.

20

ABBY

We driftfrom the ring toss into the next aisle of booths, where the rowdy clamor of the crowd swells and folds over itself in waves. The farther we walk, the more the day takes on a blurring brightness. Everything is too much, in the best possible way.

We do the rounds like we’re locals. Or, maybe, like we belong to each other.

At the kettle corn booth, Mason insists on getting the largest size, the bag as long as Theo’s entire torso. He pays for it, even though I was supposed to because I lost the bet. But he looks so happy, I just roll with it. He swings it onto his shoulder in a showy flex, then tucks it into the bottom of the stroller.

We spend the next hour like this: ducking into booths, sampling everything, laughing at absolutely nothing. Mason buys a jar of mustard so spicy it makes his eyes water but he pretends otherwise. Theo gets a crown of wildflowers woven by a girl with bubblegum-pink braids.

I catch Mason watching me as I adjust the little flower chain over Theo’s fine hair, gentle and careful not to break the tender stems. He looks away only when I meet his gaze, but not before Isee something flicker across his face—a kind of open, unguarded affection that makes my breath catch.

Mason slips a few extra bills into the girl’s hand, his smile warm and genuine.

“Can you make another one? The same colors, just bigger?” Mason asks, nodding toward me.

The girl grins and five minutes later, she hands him another flower crown. Vibrant blooms spilling over like a cascade of color.

“What’re you doing?” I murmur as he steps into me.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he says quietly, placing the floral chain atop my head.

No, it’s not, I scream internally.

But I don’t say that or anything else. My hand flutters over the crown, my emotions a confusing swirl inside my chest. But I shove it all down and take my spot next to him as we continue through the festival. It’s easier to keep moving than to think about what this means.

We drift toward the craft booths—soaps, bath bombs, crochet hats that look like they belong on a Scandinavian garden gnome.

At a booth selling hand-dyed onesies, the woman behind the table gestures at us with practiced ease.

“How old is he?” she asks, eyes sparkling.

“Ten months,” Mason and I say at the same time.

I blink, surprised we answered in unison. Mason cuts his eyes sideways with a small smirk, but the woman just beams, her delight effortless and maternal.

“He’s darling,” she says, “and you three make a beautiful family.”

I choke on my lemonade in my rush to correct her, the tangy sweetness suddenly overwhelming. “Oh, he’s not—I’mnot—” My words trip over each other, caught in the confusion of what I actually am. “We’re just friends.”

But Mason raises a hand in a gentle wave, his calm demeanor disarming as he replies simply, “Thanks.”

The woman raises a brow like she doesn’t know what’s going on but it’s obvioussomethingis. She slides a rainbow-striped onesie across the table. “Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be here till five.”

The warmth from the woman’s smile lingers in the air, and I can’t shake the fluttering sensation deep in my stomach. Just friends? The phrase feels inadequate as I glance at him—his presence is solid beside me, yet there’s an undeniable tension crackling between us.

Theo coos from his stroller, blissfully unaware of our awkwardness. I focus on him instead, but my heart races as I replay the moment.