Page 25 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

“A little,” I say, but my voice betrays me. A second later, the guitar is in my hands. Heavier than I expected. Cool, whisper-smooth wood against my fingers.

Mason’s watching me with that look again. The one that makes me feel like he’s seeing something I didn’t realize I was showing.

“Take ‘er for a spin,” the guy offers.

I strum the open strings. Just once. A soft sweep. The sound is warm and low and resonant—it climbs up my ribs and settles behind my throat. The air around us hushes, the noise of the crowd falling away like it knows this moment isn’t for it.

“You should play something,” Mason suggests.

I stare at him. “I don’t remember anything,” I lie, heat blooming up the back of my neck. “And I’m sure he doesn’t want me to play it.”

The vendor smiles, slow and sure. “It’s alright, go ahead.”

I nod and perch on the low wooden stool, awkward at first, then settle the guitar into my lap.

My fingers curl over the neck. One hesitant chord, then another.

The muscle memory unspools quietly, like film.

It feels different than my guitar back in Seattle, not better or worse. Just different in a good way.

The shape of a song I used to play when I thought no one was listening. The noise of the festival fades, replaced by something quieter. My own breath. The soft rasp of strings beneath my touch.

I know Mason’s watching. I can feel it.

It almost makes me stop. The crowd in my head—the weight of being witnessed—surges so loud I nearly fumble the chord. But then, I glance up.

He’s not smiling. His expression is something else entirely. Something fierce and bright and undone .

My fingers falter, and the chord buzzes off-key. I open my mouth, close it again. Something unspools in my chest. I feel bare and exposed—and weirdly safe. Like I’ve been cracked open and nothing bad happened.

Then his voice—low, rough, stunned—cuts through the silence. “ You are exquisite, Abigail Carter.”

The way he says it wrecks me. Not just the words, but the wonder in them.

I feel like I’ve waited my entire goddamn life for someone to look at me like this.

No, not someone. Him .

Goddamnit, it was always him .

He holds my gaze until the rest of the world stitches itself back together, noise and color and chaos all bleeding in around the edges while we just . . . stay there. No one moves. I could live a thousand years in that look, the air between us strung as tight as a guitar string.

Then the vendor coughs, as soft and polite as a church usher. “She’s got a gift,” he says, beaming at me like I’ve just made his afternoon. “If you want to keep her playing, I’ll knock a hundred off the price.”

I laugh, a startled, genuine noise, and hand back the guitar. “I’m rusty,” I say, trying to make it a joke. But it comes out too soft. “But yeah, it plays like a dream.”

“Sounded perfect to me,” Mason says, his voice so low I’m not sure anyone else even hears it.

I feel the words in my chest, not my ears.

“Thank you.” I hand the guitar back with both hands.

“1969 Brazilian Rosewood. Neck reset, bridge and pickguard replacement, and I repaired a sizable back crack,” the guy says, spinning the guitar around to show me. “I’ve had it for a while, too long if you ask my wife. Do us both a favor and take it off my hands. Eleven hundred.”

I blink, certain I misheard him. “Wait, that’s it?” Eleven hundred for a vintage Martin? Even in questionable condition, that’s a steal.

The vendor grins, catching my disbelief.

“I know what it’s worth, darlin’. But I also know when something’s ready for a new home.

” He shrugs, hands steady as he tucks the guitar back into its cradle.

“Besides, I’d rather see it played by someone who loves it than have it continue to gather dust in the shop. ”

Mason’s already reaching for his wallet, but I stop him with a hand on his forearm. “Jesus, Mason, no .”

Mason steps forward, slow and quiet, eyes locked on mine. “You used to play your grandpa’s guitar in your living room late at night when you thought no one was around.” His voice drops, reverent. “One time, Beau and I came back early from a party and heard you singing.”

I blink a few times, searching my memory and coming up blank. “I don’t remember that.”

He chuckles, his eyes going warm like he’s reliving the memory.

“You wouldn’t. I put Beau in a headlock and dragged his ass back out to the car.

He was gonna bust in there and run his mouth, and I—I didn’t want you to know we’d heard.

You looked. . . I don’t know. Happy, I guess.

” He shrugs, then shakes his head like he’s said too much. “You were good. You are good.”

I want to laugh, but the sound gets stuck in my throat. “You could’ve said something.”

He looks at me, quiet and sure. “Sometimes you don’t say the thing you want to say most.”

I look at him, my heart in my throat, and say, “I’ll take it.”

The part of me that’s spent years working my ass off, talking myself out of anything indulgent, and saving as much as possible cringes at the price. But this other part, the new, tender part that’s slowly re-emerged over the last week is skipping through a field of wildflowers.

I’ve missed playing my guitar this week, and I didn’t realize how much until right now.

“I take cash, card, or PayPal,” the guy says as he pulls out a hardshell case.

I pay, and the vendor packs it with a care that feels almost ceremonial.

He tucks a new set of strings into the compartment and wishes me luck.

I thank him, voice gone soft, and then Mason takes the case from my hands before I even have a chance to protest. He holds it by the handle on the neck with an easy, practiced grip and then gestures toward the exit.

We’re quiet as we leave the tent, but it’s not awkward. It's heavy with the kind of silence that only happens after someone’s seen you, really seen you.

And they didn’t look away.