Page 30 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

MASON

The monitor glows blue on the counter next to me. Theo’s sleeping on his back, arms thrown up by his head, sleep sack wrinkled around him.

Abby stands next to me at the sink, drying dishes while I wash. The kitchen lights are low, the window above the sink dark enough to reflect us back. She hums along to the music playing from the speaker in the corner of the kitchen, some folksy guitar cover song.

I watch her reflection as she stacks plates, the motion steady and practiced. Her hair’s coming loose from its knot, a few strands falling into her eyes. She blows them away and pretends not to notice I’m looking.

The silence between us is comfortable, but it’s laced with something else tonight. I keep catching her gaze in the glass, both of us too aware of each other.

She finishes drying a sippy cup and sets it on the counter. “Would it be crazy if I stayed?”

The words land like a dropped glass.

Water drips from my hands into the sink, steam curling up around my knuckles. “What?”

She shrugs, eyes on the counter. “If I didn’t go back, I mean.”

My chest tightens. Water rushes from the tap, unnoticed. “To Seattle?”

She barely dips her head in a nod.

I shut off the water and brace my hands on the edge of the sink.

I want to say no, it wouldn’t be crazy. I want to say stay . But my head’s already filling with all the reasons she won’t. All the reasons she can’t.

They don’t make jobs like hers here. There’s no six-figure nonprofit, no gleaming tower with a panoramic view of Puget Sound. There’s a world here, but it’s not the one she’s been trained to run.

“What would you even do here?” That sounds harsher than I meant it. But it’s not judgment. It’s fear.

Because if she stays, and I get used to this—used to her —what happens when she changes her mind?

She forces a laugh, her fingers twisting in the towel as she turns away, shoulders reaching toward her ears. “Yeah, it’s a silly idea. Just—forget I even said anything.” She reaches up to put Theo’s cups in the cabinet.

Fuck.

The second the words leave her mouth, I feel them like a gut punch. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that—like she can’t be here.

She shrinks in on herself as she stretches to reach the shelf, all the light gone from her voice. That hopeful, quiet question— Would it be crazy if I stayed? —is already retreating, shoved back behind the same armor I’ve watched her carry since she got here.

No, absolutely not.

I set the towel down and cross the kitchen in two long strides, my pulse thudding hard behind my ribs.

“Hey.” My voice is softer this time. Not rough or guarded. I reach out gently, fingers brushing her waist. I don’t pull, don’t crowd her—just give her space to choose.

“Don’t—don’t shut me out.”

She hesitates, then lowers the cup in her hand. Doesn’t turn around yet.

So I do it for her.

“Talk to me, baby.” I turn her to face me and drop my head to meet her eyes. Trying to find her under the storm I just stirred up.

Her gaze skitters away, but I stay there, grounded in front of her, steady like I should’ve been from the start.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say quietly.

“Okay,” she murmurs.

I cup her cheek in my palm, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. My eyes wander over her features, trying to memorize them while I still can.

“You can do anything, Abigail Carter. Anything . You’re smart. Kind. Funny as hell. And so goddamn beautiful it makes my teeth ache?—”

Then her mouth is pressing against mine. Holy fuck, Abby’s kissing me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

My brain blanks. It’s like someone hit the kill switch and the only sense left working is touch—her hands, warm and trembling, resting against my chest; her lips, softer than I’d ever let myself imagine, tasting like lemon and salt and the sharp, wild edge of fear.

I don’t kiss her back.

I don’t kiss her back because I’m so fucking stunned I forget how.

She feels it, the hesitation, and pulls away with a breathy little gasp like I’ve burned her. Her hands drop, and she rocks back on her heels, color flooding her face. “Oh my god,” she blurts. “I’m sorry?—”

My brain finally kicks on and I surge forward, catching her face in my hands. I sink my fingers into her hair, and kiss her the way I’ve dreamed about for years.

She makes a soft, startled noise, but then she’s kissing me back, hands fisted in my T-shirt, pulling me closer until there’s nothing between us but heat and years of attraction.

Her mouth is wild and desperate on mine and I realize, with a jolt, that I’ve been hungry for this longer than I’ve let myself admit.

She tastes like the first warm night of summer, stars about to burst from the cold black sky.

The world tunnels down to this single, impossible moment.

Her breath hitches when I bite down, gentle, on her lower lip; she shivers, then opens her mouth to me, and it’s all I can do not to lose my goddamn mind.

It’s messy. Not the way I’d pictured it. I always thought if she ever let me have her, it’d be slow—gentle, careful, like I could ease her down from whatever heights she lived at. But it’s not like that. She’s all sharp edges and hunger, and I’m going to devour her.

She makes a low, desperate sort of sound, and I swear it rewires my brain.

I back her into the counter, one hand tangled in her hair, the other splayed across her spine, and for once I don’t overthink a single fucking thing.

I just feel her, alive and electric, pressed flush against me, her pulse thundering under my fingertips.

She’s the one who deepens the kiss, who slides her arms around my neck and pulls me down like she wants to climb inside of me and stay there forever.

My knees nearly buckle. I’ve had a lot of good things in my life, but nothing has ever felt like this.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, her lips kiss-bruised, her fingers still clutching my shirt.

We just stare at each other. The world’s gone silent except for the faint ticking of the oven and the blood rushing in my ears.

A huff of laughter comes out, stuttering around the edges. “That wasn’t—” She has to close her eyes to reset, to line up the words again. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I wanted to, I just?—”

“I know.” I kiss her again, quick and hard, just to prove it’s not a mistake. She tastes like relief this time and perfection.

The oven timer dings, sharp and sudden, cutting through the fog consuming me.

She blinks, eyes glassy and voice breathless. “I forgot about the brownies.”

“Me too.”

She slips from my arms, moving fast, all pink cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. She ducks her head as she crosses to the oven, muttering something too low for me to hear.

I stay where I am, bracing both palms on the counter, trying to remember my own name.