Page 17 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

The rest of the morning unspools in gentle, unhurried threads.

Theo is still napping after an hour, and I spend most of that time on the porch, idly watching swallows dart over the grass while texts from the group chat burble in and make me laugh out loud more than once.

At some point, I wander into Mason’s kitchen and find a pack of sticky notes and a pen; I scribble Theo asleep in crib!

Nap Strike: Averted –A and stick it to the fridge, because it feels cheeky and fun.

I rinse out my glass, set it in the sink, then pause.

There are a few other dishes there—a bottle, two mugs, some breakfast plates.

I roll up my sleeves and start washing them, the rhythmic motion oddly soothing.

The water is warm, the soap citrus-bright.

I stack everything to dry on a towel and wipe down the counter, the hum of the house settling around me like a comfortable old song.

On a whim, I duck back into Theo’s room and grab the baby monitor off his dresser, closing the door softly behind me. It lights up immediately, the feed clean and clear.

He’s still out. Both arms high around his ears, mouth open in sleep.

I clutch the monitor to my chest and tiptoe back down the hall, resisting the urge to look behind the other three closed doors.

Instead, I follow the sound of machinery out the front door and into the heat.

The barn is open—big bay doors rolled back, sunlight pouring in across the concrete floor.

A Mustang is up on jacks, deep blue paint gleaming under the strip lights overhead.

Tools line one wall in neat rows. There’s a workbench, a battered fridge, and in the corner, an entire baby-proofed area for Theo.

There’s a pack-n-play, a pile of board books, a basket of toys, even a foam mat with puzzle-piece edges.

The sight makes me laugh under my breath.

Of course Mason would turn a corner of his garage into a kid zone.

This is the same man who once built an entire zipline with Beau when they were in middle school after seeing exactly one video tutorial.

He’s under the hood of the Mustang, sleeves rolled to his elbows, grease streaked across one forearm.

I watch him for a minute, the way his movements are precise but unhurried.

He leans in, bracing a wide palm against the frame, a tendon flexing under the skin, and squints at whatever’s inside.

Every once in a while he mutters something under his breath, a low running dialogue with himself, and there’s a kind of comfort in the ordinariness of it.

It’s not just that he’s handsome, though he is—maddeningly so, in a worn-out t-shirt and jeans that have been washed to softness, with a jawline that could probably saw through sheetrock if it tried.

When he hears my footsteps on the concrete, he doesn’t turn, just lifts his chin and calls, “Theo asleep?” without even looking up. As if the only possible person approaching is me, as if it’s inevitable I’d follow the sound of him out here.

“As we speak,” I say, surprised by how proud I feel about it. I shimmy the monitor in one hand as proof. “Lasted about five minutes after you left. Not a single sign of the nap strike you warned me about.”

He grins, white teeth flashing as he wipes his hands with a rag. “Maybe you should come over every day.”

I laugh, then regret it a little when he looks over, eyes bright and unreadable.

There’s a fluttery twist in my stomach—half nerves, half something else, something I refuse to name because naming it would be a problem.

Instead, I clear my throat, look pointedly away, and pretend to study the car like I know anything about engines.

Mason wipes his hands again, then tosses the rag onto the workbench. “You know, I always thought you’d end up teaching or something. Montessori school, maybe. You were always good with kids.”

“Montessori?” I can’t help but laugh. “I don’t even know what that means, other than tiny furniture and not telling kids no.”

“Exactly,” he says, rounding the bumper and leaning his ass against the workbench.

“You’d probably end up running the place after a week.

I remember you had this system for everything, like you had a schedule for your schedule.

” He shrugs, but there’s no teasing in his voice.

Just a kind of quiet admiration, the kind that lands gently and lingers.

Still, it falls uncomfortably around my shoulders. “I didn’t know Avalon Falls had a Montessori school.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, pulling the fabric of his tee tight in the most distracting way. “It’s new. Only for kids ages two to six. Doesn’t help me now, but something to think about for the future.”

“I thought your mom was watching Theo during the day?” I nod toward the house behind us.

“She’s with Cal through the end of the season and all summer. She’s renting a condo up there by him and everything.”

I nod, trying to think of something helpful to say. Instead, what comes out is, “I can help with Theo. While I’m home, I mean. If you want.”

He doesn’t move, but the muscle in his jaw jumps. He doesn’t look away, either. “You don’t have to do that.”

The words feel like a challenge. Or maybe a warning.

I lift my chin a little. “I want to.”

He’s quiet for a second, just watching me. Then he nods once, like he’s accepting a dare. “You sure?”

“I am.” Am I?

"Alright then," he says, and the dare is gone, replaced by something tentative, almost gentle. "I’ll get you his schedule."

I start to laugh, but it catches in my throat when he looks at me that way. Like he’s trying to memorize everything about me, down to the way I stand with my hands on my hips and my hair half-falling over my shoulder. Like he wants to reach out and touch me, but knows better.

I wonder if he does know better. I wonder if I do.

That night from so long ago flashes across my consciousness, and I have to clear my throat to get it to dissipate. It’s not the time to be thinking about the way Mason’s hands and mouth felt on me. Especially when he doesn’t even remember it.

"Want me to stick around until Theo wakes up? Or should I go before he realizes I’m gone?”

“Stay,” he says, and it’s so quick and unconsidered that for a second I’m stunned silent.

The word hangs there in the dust motes floating in a patch of sunlight between us.

He palms the back of his neck and looks to his right. “Only if you want,” he adds, softer. “It’s nice having you here.”

For a second, all I can do is smile. The kind you feel in the back of your throat, the kind that almost hurts on the way out. Then I catch myself, rein it in, and reach for something neutral in my tone.

“Alright,” I murmur.

His lips part, but before he can utter a word, I hear Theo crying on the monitor.

He’s not wailing—just the soft protest of a baby that’s waking up from a nap.

I glance at the monitor, then up at Mason.

Whatever he was going to say is gone, and he’s already moving back under the hood of the Mustang.

“I’m going to go get him up. Anything I need to know?” I ask, walking backward toward the door of the barn. About Theo? About what you were going to say? I don’t ask those questions though.

“There are leftovers in the fridge for lunch, so help yourself. And he loves those packets too.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll be in here if you need me,” he says, his focus on the car.

I nod and step into the sunlight, glancing back once.

He’s standing in front of the car, one hand braced on the Mustang’s raised hood, the other hanging loose at his side.

The work rag dangles from his fingers, forgotten.

His gaze is steady, fixed on me. Not in a way that asks for anything, but in a way that acknowledges everything.

Like he’s been watching the whole time. Like nothing I do is invisible to him, even when I wish it were.

A pulse of heat flashes in my cheeks and I look away, feigning interest in the meadow, the porch, the short distance to his house. Anything but the way his gaze feels like a physical caress over my skin.