Page 24 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

We drift from the ring toss into the next aisle of booths, where the rowdy clamor of the crowd swells and folds over itself in waves. The farther we walk, the more the day takes on a blurring brightness. Everything is too much, in the best possible way.

We do the rounds like we’re locals. Or, maybe, like we belong to each other.

At the kettle corn booth, Mason insists on getting the largest size, the bag as long as Theo’s entire torso.

He pays for it, even though I was supposed to because I lost the bet.

But he looks so happy, I just roll with it.

He swings it onto his shoulder in a showy flex, then tucks it into the bottom of the stroller.

We spend the next hour like this: ducking into booths, sampling everything, laughing at absolutely nothing. Mason buys a jar of mustard so spicy it makes his eyes water but he pretends otherwise. Theo gets a crown of wildflowers woven by a girl with bubblegum-pink braids.

I catch Mason watching me as I adjust the little flower chain over Theo’s fine hair, gentle and careful not to break the tender stems. He looks away only when I meet his gaze, but not before I see something flicker across his face—a kind of open, unguarded affection that makes my breath catch.

Mason slips a few extra bills into the girl’s hand, his smile warm and genuine.

“Can you make another one? The same colors, just bigger?” Mason asks, nodding toward me.

The girl grins and five minutes later, she hands him another flower crown. Vibrant blooms spilling over like a cascade of color.

“What’re you doing?” I murmur as he steps into me.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he says quietly, placing the floral chain atop my head.

No, it’s not , I scream internally.

But I don’t say that or anything else. My hand flutters over the crown, my emotions a confusing swirl inside my chest. But I shove it all down and take my spot next to him as we continue through the festival. It’s easier to keep moving than to think about what this means.

We drift toward the craft booths—soaps, bath bombs, crochet hats that look like they belong on a Scandinavian garden gnome.

At a booth selling hand-dyed onesies, the woman behind the table gestures at us with practiced ease.

“How old is he?” she asks, eyes sparkling.

“Ten months,” Mason and I say at the same time.

I blink, surprised we answered in unison. Mason cuts his eyes sideways with a small smirk, but the woman just beams, her delight effortless and maternal.

“He’s darling,” she says, “and you three make a beautiful family.”

I choke on my lemonade in my rush to correct her, the tangy sweetness suddenly overwhelming. “Oh, he’s not— I’m not—” My words trip over each other, caught in the confusion of what I actually am. “We’re just friends.”

But Mason raises a hand in a gentle wave, his calm demeanor disarming as he replies simply, “Thanks.”

The woman raises a brow like she doesn’t know what’s going on but it’s obvious something is. She slides a rainbow-striped onesie across the table. “Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be here till five.”

The warmth from the woman’s smile lingers in the air, and I can’t shake the fluttering sensation deep in my stomach. Just friends? The phrase feels inadequate as I glance at him—his presence is solid beside me, yet there’s an undeniable tension crackling between us.

Theo coos from his stroller, blissfully unaware of our awkwardness. I focus on him instead, but my heart races as I replay the moment.

We meander toward a big food tent, and just as we near the edge, Mason leans in close. His voice is quiet.

“You don’t have to clarify every time.”

I look at him, startled and maybe a little stung. “I just don’t want to overstep.”

But he’s looking at me with something close to apology in his eyes, and anything else I was going to say gets caught in my throat.

Inside the food tent, we share a funnel cake dusted with enough powdered sugar to give me a sugar high for a month.

Some of the powdered sugar dusts Mason’s thumb as he tears off a corner for me.

He holds it out, and there’s a beat before I realize he means for me to take it from his hand.

I do, brushing my fingers against his and feeling a jolt of something embarrassingly sharp for a carnival snack.

I pop the piece in my mouth and try to look unaffected.

I tear off a teeny tiny piece, the only part not coated in powdered sugar, and offer it to Theo.

Next to us, a man in a faded Fyr Bal volunteer shirt and a weathered baseball hat is waiting for his own funnel cake. He leans toward Mason with a chuckle, and says, “God, I miss when my kids were little.”

Mason’s mouth curves into a genuine smile. “It’s a wild age,” he says, keeping his gaze on Theo, who’s currently trying to grab my hand and get more funnel cake.

“How about this instead?” I murmur to Theo, offering him one of his puffed rice cereal snacks.

The man turns toward Mason, like he’s settling in for a chat while he waits for his food. “You local?”

“Just visiting for the festival,” Mason answers, steady as always.

The man whistles, low and fond. “It’s a great festival, isn’t it?

I’ve been coming every year since my kids were his age,” he says, nodding toward Theo.

“My oldest is in college now, but he still comes home for Fyr Bal.” He plucks his funnel cake from the counter and grins at Mason, eyes soft with nostalgia.

“You’re lucky, man. Beautiful family.” He nods at Theo—at me—and then back at Mason, as if the three of us are a matched set, the only possible arrangement.

“I really am.” Mason throws his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his side, and the heat of him is like a pulse running straight through my skin.

For a second, I can’t breathe. The tent narrows to the tight circle of his arm and the clean, sun-warmed scent of his shirt, and I’m sure everyone around us can see how my face flushes to the roots of my hair. I’m so thrown I almost don’t notice the way he leans down, voice pitched just for me.

“Play along, Trouble.”

The words lodge somewhere behind my ribs, and maybe it’s the sugar or the noise or the fact that his grip doesn’t loosen even after the well-meaning gentleman grabs his food and leaves the tent.

I keep waiting for him to let go, or for the joke to land and for us to step back into the tidy boundaries we’ve both spent years pretending we haven’t drawn.

But Mason’s arm stays draped over my shoulders, his fingers curving against the bare skin at the crook of my neck.

He’s not in a rush. Not performing. Just holding me there—like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Theo licks the cereal dust off his fist. I stare at the funnel cake, feeling every nerve ending in my body vibrate with awareness. The tent buzzes with laughter, the accordion music from outside now a dull background hum in the distance.

Mason leans in, lips grazing the shell of my ear as he murmurs, “See? Was that so bad?”

I choke on a cough. “No,” I say, and my voice is too thin, too quick.

“Just—unexpected.” My ears burn. I can’t even look at him.

I fumble for a napkin, dust my fingers, and pretend the only thing I’m feeling is embarrassment at the sugar smears, not the way his thumb is still tracing slow, absent circles at the base of my neck.

Theo babbles, waving a sticky hand in the air. I latch onto him as my excuse. “You want more cereal?” I ask, even though he’s just as happy gumming his own thumb and staring at all the people.

Mason squeezes my shoulder once, then finally lets his arm slide away, slow and careful like he’s reluctant to create even an inch of space between us. I shiver at the loss, skin prickling with the ghost of his touch.

We move through the rest of the festival in a haze. Neither of us talking. Neither of us willing to puncture whatever just happened. I keep one hand on the stroller, the other clenched loosely at my side, and try to quiet the spinning in my head.

I don’t even notice the next time someone assumes we’re a couple. Maybe I don’t want to.

Kids weave through the crowd, trailing balloon animals and melting popsicles. A woman with three toddlers in matching overalls gives us a tight-lipped smile as we pass.

Theo squirms in the stroller, kicking his legs restlessly. Mason leans over to readjust the sunshade, and at the same moment, I reach out to straighten Theo's flower-crown hat hybrid, which he's somehow tilted to the side. Our hands touch lightly, knuckles brushing in the gentle space between us.

Mason just looks down at me, mouth tugged into that lopsided line he gets when he’s caught off guard and trying to pretend otherwise.

Every now and then, our hips bump, or the swing of our steps syncs up, and I think maybe this is what being content is supposed to feel like .

For once, I let myself have it.

Just for now.

We follow the music down a side path, toward the quieter edge of the festival .

The music tent is more lean-to than structure—reclaimed barn wood lashed together under faded banners. Most of the instruments are props: dulcimers, old accordions, and a battered tambourine for kids to bang on while their parents shop for candles or buy another bag of kettle corn.

But in the far corner, behind the table and underneath a sun-bleached sign that reads Vintage Scandinavian Stringed Wonders, there’s a guitar.

Not a cheap beginner’s special. An old, honey-brown Martin. The top is worn smooth by decades of sound. It isn’t displayed like the others—it sits alone, cradled in a battered stand, like it knows it’s out of everyone’s league.

I feel the pull before I can talk myself out of it. It’s like the world dials down, the noise and color softening, just to make space for the thrum of want in my chest.

I step toward it. The vendor—an older man with a beard so white it looks almost blue in the light—sees me and waves.

“Come on over. You play?” he asks, already grabbing it off of the stand.