Page 14 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

“I don’t want you to have to lie for me,” I whisper. Like if I say it too loud, I’ll make it true in some irrevocable way.

“You let me worry about that,” Mason replies without hesitation. Quiet but firm, like he’s already decided, and I don’t get a say in it.

I blink hard, my gaze sliding over his shoulder to the slow-moving creek, to the green quiet stretching around us. I’ve spent the last two days trying to disappear. And somehow he still found me. I don't know what to make of that.

“I don’t want my family to know I’m here,” I admit. “I just . . . I just needed somewhere quiet for a little while.”

Mason blinks. “So you decided to camp by the creek?”

A dry laugh hitches in my throat. “No. God, no.” I shake my head.

“I’m staying at my cabin. The one Nana Jo left me.

” I bite the inside of my cheek, internally chastising myself for letting that little piece of information slip freely.

My brothers never talked about their inheritance, kept it sealed up like a secret between them and Nana Jo.

And I guess, without realizing it, I’ve been doing the same.

“Cabin,” he echoes.

“It’s tucked back near the ridge. You can’t really see it from the trail.” God, stop talking , I yell at myself.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just shifts his stance a little, like he’s balancing the weight of the sleeping baby on his back and the weight of whatever this is between us.

“You hungry?” he asks after a beat, voice rough like gravel and hesitation. “I’ve got frozen waffles and like, three kinds of toddler snacks. And an ice pack if you want one.”

My brows lift. “Are you luring me into your house with waffles?”

A muscle in his cheek ticks. “I didn’t say they were good waffles.”

I should say no. I should back away, go to the cabin, close the door behind me, and pretend this didn’t happen. Hide out like I'd planned.

But somehow, Mason Porter—with his worn flannel, steady hands, and baby snuggle bait—feels safer than silence right now.

“I could use some ice,” I murmur, eyes flicking toward the ground.

He shifts his shoulder like a shrug, but I see the relief pass through his eyes before he turns. “This way.”

We walk the dirt path in silence, birdsong overhead, the rush of the creek fading behind us. Theo is nestled in the carrier on Mason’s back, head tipped to one side, his cheek pressed against the fabric of Mason’s shirt.

Mason’s hand hovers near my lower back whenever the trail narrows. He doesn’t touch me again, but I feel him there. Like he would, if I needed him to.

We don’t say much, but the quiet between us isn’t awkward. It’s something else, something careful. Like maybe we’re both wondering how that nickname sounded so good coming from his mouth.

Baby .

The trees thin, and the land opens wide around a farmhouse that looks like it belongs on the front of a postcard.

There’s a pole barn just off the gravel drive, the kind of barn red that catches the golden hour like it was made for it.

A three-car garage sits to the right, one garage door halfway open, a car visible in the shadows.

The house itself looks warm and lived-in, with a wide wraparound porch and flower beds lining the path. Wildflowers climb the edges, the stubborn kind that grow back no matter how many times you pull them.

Mason clears his throat as we climb the porch steps. He opens the screen door and holds the front door wide. “Come on in.”

I step inside. The screen door clicks shut behind me with a soft rattle that feels strangely familiar. Mason’s house is quiet in the way old things are. Wood floors creak under our feet, and the air smells like cedar and coffee and something else I can’t name.

“So this is your house,” I murmur, taking in the open layout.

The living room and kitchen share the same stretch of floor, but the contrast between them is stark. The kitchen is dated—laminate counters, old oak cabinets worn smooth at the handles, the stove probably older than me—but everything is tidy, functional. Intentional, even.

The living room, by contrast, feels like the start of something new.

Neutral paint, a low-slung couch that looks like it came in a box with confusing instructions, a throw blanket folded neatly over the back.

On one side of the room, a wall’s been freshly drywalled and patched, but not yet painted.

A narrow shelf by the window holds a few framed photos—mostly of Theo, but one of Mason and Beau, both of them sun-flushed and grinning at the edge of a lake.

It’s a work in progress. But it already feels like him.

Mason shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking toward the kitchen and then back again. “Yeah. Not what you’re used to, I’m sure.”

The tops of his cheekbones flush, not bright, just a faint pink that makes me wonder if he’s embarrassed or just warm. He’s been carrying a sleeping baby in the sun for who knows how long. Probably both.

His hand moves to the carrier straps, loosening and unbuckling with practiced care. Theo stays completely out, his cheek smushed against Mason’s shoulder like he couldn’t be more content.

“I love it,” I say, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them.

He scoffs, reaching back to unbuckle another strap—one hand steady on Theo’s back. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it for me, Trouble. It’s a fuckin’ mess.”

Trouble.

The word catches in my chest, sharp and unexpected. Not Abby. Not even Carter. Just . . . Trouble . I don’t think he even realized he said it. Once upon a time, that nickname meant everything. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop holding my breath when he says it like that.

“Here, let me help you,” I say, already stepping closer. My fingers brush his arm, light but deliberate. When he doesn’t stop me, I unbuckle the last strap and ease Theo out of the carrier.

He melts against me without waking. His cheek presses to my shoulder, warm and damp, and one tiny fist curls into the collar of my sweatshirt like it belongs there. Like he knows me.

I freeze, heart thudding. His weight is solid and grounding. A kind of comfort I didn’t realize I needed until I had it.

“Half the reason this thing’s so effective is you can’t take it off without a degree in engineering,” Mason mutters, still fumbling with the buckle on the other side, completely unaware of the storm brewing in my chest. “It’s been a godsend for naps lately though, so I put up with it.

” He finally unclips the last latch with a grunt and looks up.

His entire body goes still when he sees me holding Theo.

His expression doesn't change, not at first. It just locks down. Like someone flipped a switch and shut him off or something.

“Am I holding him wrong?” I ask quietly, suddenly unsure. “It’s been a couple years since I’ve done this.”

He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t say anything for a beat too long. Then, softly, like it costs him something, “No. You’re perfect.”

The words hit something deep, and for a second I have to look away. I don’t want to know what’s in his eyes right now. I don’t want to feel it.

Mason clears his throat and steps into the kitchen without another word. He opens the freezer, rummaging until he comes back with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel. “Why don’t I take him, and you can ice your eye.”

“I don’t mind,” I say. And I mean it. I’d hold Theo all day if it meant I didn’t have to face reality for a while longer.

“At least sit,” he says, nodding toward a stool at the counter. “You can ice your eye with this.”

I settle carefully, still cradling Theo, who doesn’t stir. When I press the makeshift ice pack to the edge of the bruise, the sting is instant and sharp. I hiss softly. “Thanks.”

Mason braces his hands on the counter across from me, his knuckles pale against the wood. “Want to talk about it yet?”

I hold his gaze for a second. He looks steady, solid in a way that's too appealing. And that’s almost worse. “I told you. It was an accident. I’m fine, really.”

He nods slowly, thoughtfully, like he's confirming something to himself. I hate how perceptive he is. And I hate how good he looks like this. All quiet and calm and competent. In another life, one that doesn’t look like the current disaster of mine, I’d let myself imagine him looking at me like that under different circumstances. Like I was his .

“Then why are you hiding from your family?”

My spine stiffens. That panic I’ve been pushing down starts to simmer again, rising like static against the back of my neck. “I’m not hiding.” I am. I absolutely am .

“From your brother then.”

I roll my eyes but don’t move. Theo’s weight in my arms keeps me anchored, nap-trapped, and I narrow my gaze like Mason planned it this way. “I’m lying low. Until this goes away.” I motion toward the bruise on my cheek.

“In your mysterious cabin in the woods.”

“It’s not a mysterious cabin ,” I reply, exaggerating my voice to mimic his low, gravelly tone.

He blinks. “Where is it again?”

I exhale, long and slow. “About a quarter mile that way.” I tilt my head toward the right, past the thin line of trees and across the slope of a hill, where the cabin is tucked back just enough to be forgotten.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just follows my nod, his brow faintly creased like he’s drawing a map in his head. Theo shifts in my arms, a tiny grunt rumbling in his chest, and I take it as my out.

“I should get back, actually,” I murmur, already adjusting my grip.

Mason nods, but something flickers in his expression. It's unreadable, something too sharp for the moment.

I rise carefully and pass Theo back into his daddy’s arms, his little body sagging against Mason’s chest without ever fully waking. I place the frozen bag of vegetables on the island with a quiet thunk, then reach for the muslin blanket that had slipped from the carrier earlier.

It smells like baby detergent and something warm, unmistakably Mason. My fingers curl tighter around the fabric before I can stop them.

“I’ll see you around,” I murmur, placing the sky blue blanket on the counter.

He doesn’t argue or ask when.

“Be safe,” he says quietly, adjusting Theo in his arms. The baby shifts without waking, nestling perfectly into the crook of Mason’s elbow like that spot was made just for him. Mason’s palm rubs once, slow and steady, across Theo’s back, but his eyes never leave mine.

And I don’t know why those two words hit the way they do. Maybe it’s his voice—low and sure, more vow than request. Maybe it’s the way he looks at me, like he’s memorizing me. Like this moment means something he doesn’t have the words for.

It makes me want to do something reckless, like stay .

But I don’t. I walk out before I can change my mind.

The walk back is slow, the quiet thick enough to let every thought echo too loud.

The cabin waits where I left it, tucked just off the ridge, white siding glowing soft in the late afternoon light.

It’s small, just under a thousand square feet, more like one of those country cottage-style tiny homes you see on Pinterest than an actual house.

But it’s enough. One bedroom, one bathroom, a little kitchen with an island just big enough to eat at, and a cozy living room.

Laundry and pantry tucked into a shared space behind a pocket door.

And the porch is wide enough for two chairs and a morning cup of espresso, if I stay long enough to make that a habit.

I climb the steps and unlock the door. The moment it opens, I’m hit with it, the familiar scent of lavender and vanilla. It knocks the breath right out of me.

It's like Nana Jo is standing in the middle of the living room. Like I'll turn the corner and find her in her favorite bathrobe, offering me a snack.

Tears rise before I can stop them.

I just stand in the doorway, breathing her in like I can trap her scent inside me. Like I can stitch her into my bones if I inhale deeply enough.

I close the door and flick the lock, pressing my back to the wood. Grief drapes itself across my shoulders—scratchy and too warm, like a wool scarf I didn’t ask for. I take a breath that doesn’t settle. Then head for the shower.

The bathroom is more rectangle than square and a little too pink. Nana Jo loved roses. Ceramic tiles with faded florals, a soap dish shaped like a teacup, a framed cross-stitch that says Bless This Mess.

I twist the knob in the shower and let the water run hot.

Steam builds quickly, fogging the mirror, softening the edges of everything.

When I step under the spray, it hits like a wave.

Heat pounds down my spine, over my shoulders, down my arms. I press my palms flat to the tile and let the water wash away today, yesterday, and the day before that.

I try to empty my mind. Just exist here, in this heat and silence and fog.

But Mason’s voice sneaks in anyway, uninvited.

You’re perfect.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to chase it away, but the echo lingers. It burrows deeper. And there’s this ache under my skin I can’t quite explain.

The water burns down my cheeks, too hot, too fast. Maybe that’s why I don’t notice the tears at first. Not until my throat tightens, breath catching in my chest like I’ve forgotten how to do something as basic as inhale. A broken sound claws its way out of me, sharp and small, then another.

My knees buckle, and I drop my ass to the floor of the shower, steam curling around me like a second skin. I pull my knees into my chest and press my forehead to them, hands trembling as I wrap my arms around myself.

It’s like earlier, standing in Nana Jo’s doorway, cracked the seal. And now the grief floods in too fast to stop. All the carefully held pieces of myself dissolve under the weight of it. And all that's left is the broken pieces of my failures, my mistakes and missteps.

And underneath it all: the hollow throb of loneliness I never let myself name.

The sound of the water drowns out the sobs. No one can hear me here. That’s the point. That was always the point.