Page 59 of Shattered Promise

I skip off the porch and wade through the tall grass, replaying the deep tenor of his voice all the way back to my cabin.

Fiction& Folklore glows like something out of a dream.

The windows are fogged with summer warmth and fairy lights curl across the trim like ivy, soft and golden. A handwritten sign on the glass readsClosed for Bad Bitches Book Clubin swoopy cursive. I’d bet my new guitar that Margot wrote that sign—or at least named the group.

I pause for half a second before I push the door open, like stepping inside might shift something in me I’m not ready to name.

Romeo barrels into me before I get both feet over the threshold, paws skittering across the hardwood. He’s wearing a crooked bow tie and has a fresh blowout.

“Hey, handsome,” I murmur, crouching down to rub behind his ears. “You working the door now?”

“He’s head of security,” Francesca calls from behind the register. “Very strict policy. Must love love.”

The room bursts into warmth—hugs and voices and the scent of something citrusy-sweet from the back where Cora’s probably set up the snack table like she’s feeding a village.

Eloise is sprawled across one of the overstuffed armchairs, legs thrown over the arm, a can of something fizzy sweating onto a coaster beside her. Margot’s in the corner, already halfway through a paperback, highlighter in hand like it’s a battlefield tactic.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Francesca glides toward me with open arms, floral dress fluttering around her ankles, and when she hugs me, it feels like being pulled into the center of something soft and steady.

“Abby’s here,” Francesca calls with her arm around my shoulders, like it’s a fact and a celebration in one.

There’s a chorus of greetings, and just like that, I’m folded into the circle. Someone puts a drink in my hand. Romeo climbs into Francesca’s lap. The record player clicks to life withsome moody synth-pop love ballad, and Cora starts handing out bookmarks shaped like daggers.

Inside jokes fly like confetti. Something about last month’s pick being emotionally devastating, and Francesca swearing she’ll never forgive Cora for it. Eloise argues that love interests should come with trigger warnings. Margot offers a deadpan “They did. You just didn’t read them.” Francesca dramatically pretends to faint. I laugh, sip my drink, and let the sounds of them wash over me.

It’s like standing in a sunbeam. One I haven’t quite earned.

Because they don’t know. That I’ve been here for weeks. That I’m hiding out in a cabin no one knows about. That every day I don’t leave makes the thought of leaving worse. That I might be catching feelings for the one man who broke my heart.

Francesca flops down on the arm of the couch beside me and clinks her glass against mine. “Okay, so. Real talk. We’ve been talking about emotionally unavailable men for the last twenty minutes, which means it’s time for the real question.”

“Oh no,” I say immediately.

“Since you and Margot are the only single gals in the group,” she says with a grin, “Anyreal-lifebook boyfriends either of you want to confess to?”

I laugh, but it’s too quick. Too light. My heart stutters like it’s tripped over something.

Mason’s face flashes across my vision, stupidly clear.

And suddenly I’m not laughing anymore.

Margot doesn’t even blink. “I’m not telling you anything. You’d make it weird.”

Eloise lets out a sharp laugh. “That’s bullshit. You’ve been sneaking around for weeks. You don’t slink out the door in eyeliner and platform boots at midnight unless you’re getting laid.”

“It’s called being social,” Margot says, deadpan. “I have a lot of friends.”

Eloise narrows her eyes. “Better not be Seven Pines again.”

Something in the air goes taut.

I shift in my seat, pretending to study the condensation dripping down my glass. I don’t know much about the Seven Pines—just that it’s a crew Eloise got tangled up with not too long ago. Beau had mentioned them once in passing, in the tone of voice he usually reserved for assholes.Bad news,he’d said.

Margot rolls her eyes. “Okay, kettle. You literally met Beauduringthe Gauntlet.”

“That’s different.”

“How? It’s literally illegal street racing.”