Page 21 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

Mason drives like he does everything else—with quiet confidence and very little fanfare.

One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between us, fingers loose.

He taps his thumb when the song changes, something familiar and folky playing low over the speakers.

We’ve barely spoken since I climbed in, but the silence doesn’t feel awkward.

It feels suspended. Like something’s waiting.

“So, you’re into kidnapping now. That’s new,” I murmur over the rim of my coffee. As far as ice breakers go, it’s not my best.

He shrugs one shoulder. “You can call it that. I’m calling it a Saturday off.”

“How’d Theo sleep last night?”

He exhales and a smile blooms. “Pretty good actually. Only got up once, around four. Took an hour to get him back to sleep though.”

“So you’ve been up since four,” I guess.

He chuckles. “Yeah. I’m an early riser anyway.”

“I could help one night, if you want. Might be good for you to get a whole night’s sleep.” The offer is out too quickly. I should’ve thought it through more. It sounds like I’m inviting myself to stay at his house. “I’d crash on the couch, I mean.”

Mason watches the road. “I can take care of my son.”

My heart skips a beat and warmth flushes my cheeks. “Of course you can. I just meant it’s not a big deal if you ever want a break. And I can help.”

He must hear something in my voice, because his hand flexes on the steering wheel, and his eyes cut toward me, softer now. “I know you did, Trouble. I appreciate it.” He says it quietly, like it’s a secret just for the cab of this truck.

The air in here is thick with something I can’t name. The windows are down a few inches, and the early sun is already heating the dash, the kind of late-spring day that’s going to tip into summer before noon.

Mason’s thumb resumes its lazy tap on the center console, and I watch it like it might spell out the rest of him. Like if I could just decipher the rhythm, I’d understand why he showed up this morning and what it means that I said yes so easily.

I peek at him over my sunglasses, the way his jaw flexes when he’s thinking, the cut of his cheekbone under his short stubble, the way his hair curls at the back if he lets it grow too long.

There’s a sharpness to him still, but there’s something less guarded in the way he drives now, a little more comfort in the set of his shoulders.

The silence stretches again, but it’s heavier now. Heavier and warmer. I sip my drink and trace the condensation down the side of the cup. My left hand is resting near the console. Not on it. Not touching him. But close.

Too close.

The next song picks up—some acoustic cover of a pop song I used to love—and I hum along without realizing. Mason glances over again, just for a second, but there’s something different in his expression now. His mouth softens at the corner.

“You still do that,” he says. “Hum along to the harmony, not the melody.”

I blink. “You remember that?”

His shrug is one-shouldered, but the answer is in his eyes. Of course he does.

“I’m surprised you remember that,” I murmur, surprise sparking underneath my skin like popping candy.

“I remember everything.”

The confession hangs there, suspended between us, as the landscape blurs by—barns and sun-drenched pasture and green so bright it makes you squint.

I glance at Mason, trying to gauge if he’s screwing with me, but the set of his mouth is too sincere.

He drums the steering wheel, one finger at a time, like maybe he has more to say but he’s not sure how to start.

The road unspools in front of us, a two-lane ribbon through drowsy pines and strip-mall outposts that seem to vanish as soon as they appear.

Theo’s soft, even breathing is the only thing that marks time, each sigh from the backseat landing like a feather between us.

I keep waiting for Mason to say something else—to explain why he showed up at my door, why he claims to remember everything but forgot that day—but he just drums along with the radio.

The truck feels smaller suddenly. Too warm. Too full of things unsaid.

I know I’m reading into it, but there’s a tiny, hopeful, naive piece of me that wishes he would make this big grand declaration. I know it’s stupid though. I don’t even live here— but you could , my intrusive thought buts in.

I clear my throat and look out the window. “So tell me about Chestnut Hollow. How did you find it?” Anything to get these swirling, silly thoughts out of my brain.

“It’s called Fyr Bal. I guess they’re celebrating a milestone year, and it’s a festival for the town’s Scandinavian heritage.

Mom and Cal went last year, and I don’t think Cal was nearly as impressed as our mom was, but they both had fun.

Mom walked away with some artisan crafts and a tomato plant she accidentally killed a month later.

But Cal said the food was good. Apparently, the kettle corn changed his life. ”

I laugh softly. “High praise.”

We lapse into a more comfortable rhythm then—swapping light stories, taking turns pointing out odd billboards and ridiculous street names.

At one point, we pass a barn painted in camouflage shades and both of us make a surprised noise at the same time.

It makes Mason grin. Like we’re in sync, like this isn’t the first day we’ve spent in a truck together. And maybe it won’t be the last.

When we hit the halfway point, I reach back and adjust Theo’s sunshade so it blocks the light from his face. Mason glances at me again, and his voice is low when he says, “You’re good with him.”

“It’s all him.” I say simply. “He’s easy to love.”

“Yeah.” There’s something quiet in the way he says it. Something I almost miss. “He is.”

He doesn’t add anything else. But his hand slides just a little closer to mine on the console. Not enough to touch, but enough to feel it.

Like we’re both holding our breath.

Like it’s only a matter of time.