Page 22 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

We park on the edge of a grassy field that’s been roped off for temporary parking. It’s uneven and full of pickup trucks and dusty minivans. My dress flutters against my legs as I climb out of the cab, sunglasses sliding into place.

The Fyr Bal festival is a fever dream in the best way—Scandinavian flags snapping from every lamppost, kids with painted cheeks shrieking as they race barefoot across sun-warmed grass, and the air thick with kettle corn and the charcoal curl of grilled meat.

The polka from the park’s main stage bleeds into a dozen overlapping conversations, the offbeat wheeze of an accordion chasing us down the street.

Booths spill across shut-down Main Street like a block party that got out of hand and never quite recovered.

“Want me to get Theo?” I ask, moving toward the back door.

“I can grab him after I get the stroller out,” Mason says, stepping around the back.

I pause, cup in hand. “I don't mind.”

"Alright." He nods once, already opening the truck bed.

I get Theo out of his car seat quickly and watch Mason.

He snaps the stroller open one-handed, like he’s done it a hundred times.

Which— of course —he has. There’s something about the efficiency of it, the strength behind it, the way his bicep flexes under the cuff of his rolled sleeve, that has no business being as hot as it is.

I shift Theo to my hip and try not to think too hard about the fact that I’m staring.

Mason glances up as he finishes locking the stroller wheels, mouth tilting in a half-smile like he caught me watching. I put Theo into the stroller seat and buckle him in.

“Hat, buddy,” Mason murmurs, fitting his floppy dinosaur bucket hat over Theo’s soft hair.

Theo makes a face like he might complain, then grins like the world’s his and we’re just living in it.

Mason looks at me. “Ready, Trouble?”

Just for a second, the world hushes. The music, the laughter, the fluttering flags—everything drops out. He’s half in shadow, sun catching on his jaw, and that smile—quiet and familiar, completely unfair—unfolds like it’s been waiting just for me.

I nod, gripping my empty coffee cup tighter. “Let’s do it.” But it’s not just caffeine making my pulse jump. It’s him and all of this. The easy rhythm we’ve fallen into. The fact that he asked me to come today, like it was simple. Like it was just this thing we did.

Like we're friends again. Or maybe we're finally friends. Maybe this is what friendship with Mason Porter looks like these days.

I don't hate it.

We fall into step side by side, a rhythm that feels instinctive.

It takes three seconds before I realize what this looks like to everyone else: a family outing. I tell myself it’s fine. It's one day. A festival between friends. But then Theo catches my pinky in his fist and doesn’t let go. And something in my chest tips, slow and irreversible.

We wander through the vendor booths first—honey in sunlit glass jars, hand-carved bowls, embroidered towels in deep reds and soft blues.

The air smells like fried sugar and grass, warm and a little wild.

I keep my sunglasses on even in the shade, hoping the bruise under my eye isn’t as obvious as it feels.

I put a healthy amount of concealer on this morning, but the insecurity still hums under my skin like a low-voltage current.

“Free sample?” a woman calls from the first table, already holding out a tray stacked with crackers topped in something magenta and glossy. Her red gingham apron flaps in the breeze, her grin bright.

Mason slows the stroller beside me, flipping down the sunshade so Theo’s in the patchy bit of shade that cuts across the vendor row.

“Lingonberry jam,” she says, chipper. “Want to try?”

Theo slams his palms against the stroller tray and babbles something incoherent. I laugh, but my eyes flick to Mason, automatically checking for a nod.

He dips his head. “Let him try it.”

"Sure, thanks." I reach for a cracker, breaking off a soft corner of it before holding it to Theo’s mouth.

He grabs my fingers, pulls them closer, and gets it everywhere—mouth, chin, fingers. He looks like he’s been fingerpainting in jam. He pauses, his eyes growing wide as he stares at me.

"Does that taste good, buddy?" I murmur, taking a small bite of the other side of the cracker. Sweet and tart and smooth. It's delicious. I think I'm going to enjoy the Fyr Bal festival.

“Think he likes it,” Mason murmurs, amusement tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“I can't blame him. It's delicious,” I say, wiping jam from Theo’s lip with the edge of a napkin the vendor hands me.

The woman beams as she looks from Theo to me. “He looks just like you.” She gestures toward the jars on display. “Three for ten, by the way. I make all the preserves myself.”

The assumption lands awkwardly around my neck, sticky and sweet, just like the jam.

Mason doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at me. But I can feel him waiting.

I open my mouth before I really think about it. “Oh, I—I’m just the nanny.” I push to my feet and toss the napkin in the small garbage can in front of the table.

The woman chuckles, smoothing her apron as her cheeks flush pink. “Well, coincidence then.”

"Yep. Thank you." I flash her a smile.

Mason starts to push the stroller forward again with a gentle nudge, and I let him. But the heat rising up my neck isn’t from the sun.

“You could’ve just pretended,” he murmurs once we’re out of earshot, not looking at me.

“I didn’t want to make it weird,” I say, quickly. Too quickly.

His gaze skims my profile, unreadable. “Weirder than pretending to be a family?”

I don’t answer. Just fix my eyes on a booth selling block-printed dish towels and pretend to read a price tag.

My palms are damp. I wipe them down the skirt of my dress, twice.

It’s not just the heat. It’s him. It’s this.

The fact that my body hasn’t gotten the memo that we’re pretending to be friends today.

We let Theo charm his way through vendor row, collecting a torn piece of sourdough here, a pretzel chunk there. He grins at everyone like he’s been elected king of the festival, his joy so effortless it cracks something soft and private inside my chest.

We stop at a booth filled with hand-carved wooden pieces—platters, ladles, bowls—all etched in delicate Scandinavian folk art. Tiny flowers swirl up the handles, bright paint layered over the grooves like someone took a paintbrush to memory.

“I love this kind of stuff,” I say, smiling without meaning to, fingers trailing over the edge of a pale birch cutting board.

“I know,” Mason says. Simple and certain, like he’s cataloged this about me already and kept it somewhere close.

Theo whines—not fussy but probably hungry for more than just samples.

Mason nods toward the end of the block, where the food trucks are parked in a lazy half-circle. "Want to grab something to eat?"

"Yeah, I could eat."

"What do you feel like?" he asks, scanning the trucks as we get closer.

"I'm good with whatever."

"Let's split a few things. We can try more that way," he murmurs.

He doesn’t wait for me to agree, just points at the first truck—smoked brisket and pickled slaw, painted in curling blue script—and heads that way.

I trail, the stroller wheels bumping over uneven sidewalk, my hand unconsciously hovering near Theo’s head as we weave through the crowd.

The food lines are long, but the air’s so thick with the smell of food that waiting feels less like a chore, more like an appetizer.

I stand off to the side, crouching to unzip Theo’s bag and fish out a squeeze pouch. I’m not sure what Mason’s going to come back with, or if it’s anything that Theo will eat. He seems like a good eater, but you can’t go wrong with a fruit and veggie pouch.

By the time Mason comes back, I’m wiping applesauce off Theo’s chin with the edge of a wipe. I stand, brushing stray grass from my knees.

He’s balancing a tray stacked with more food than we could possibly eat: brisket sandwiches, some kind of flatbread, and a few things on sticks. There’s a side of bright pink pickled something and a mason jar of lemonade tucked in the crook of his arm.

I blink at the haul and try not to laugh at the sheer volume of food, but he catches the twitch of my lips.

“It’s called sampling,” he deadpans. But his smirk gives it away.

“Huh, looks more like a feast.”

I reach out my hands to grab the plate, but he shrugs it out of my reach.

“I got it. Here, try this first.” He holds out what looks like little dough balls on a stick, steam curling from them.

“What even is that?” I laugh, already leaning in.

Mason shrugs, eyes glinting with mischief. “Some kind of Danish pancake, I think. The guy said it’s tradition here.” He nudges it closer, like maybe if he pushes it right up to my lips I’ll just open up on instinct.

Well, joke’s on him because that kind of stuff works on me. I settle my hand on his wrist as I lean in and eat a pancake on the end of the stick. Soft dough, slightly crunchy crust, and filled with custard.

I hum my appreciation as I eat it.

“Good?” Mason murmurs.

I look up, surprised to find his gaze dark and trained on me.

“So good,” I mutter, my heart thudding too quickly. “You should try one.”

I pop the next one off the stick and hold it up, inches from his mouth. For a second, I’m sure he’ll just take it from my fingers. But he leans in and bites half of it, eyes locked on mine and lips grazing my thumb and index finger.

The heat that flares up my neck has nothing to do with the food truck behind us.