Page 33 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

The bathroom is warm in that quiet, lived-in kind of way—not in a spa-adjacent, eucalyptus-scented, everything-matching-towels kind of way, but in the way of a man who’s lived alone for a while and didn’t bother to take down the previous owner’s wallpaper.

Which is horses.

Everywhere .

Trotting and galloping horses in soft shades of sky blue, warm taupe, and soft cream.

It’s not the wallpaper itself, it’s just so obviously not-Mason that it took me by surprise when I flicked the light on.

I idly wonder what he thinks about every time he sees it, or maybe he’s tuned it out by now and it doesn’t even register anymore.

The overhead light hums low above me, casting a soft halo over the counter where Mason’s left an oversized fluffy green towel for me. I sit the stack of clothes he handed me on top, a pair of gray sweatpants, a well-loved navy blue henley, and a pair of thick socks.

I don’t waste time stripping out of my soaking wet pajamas, wringing them out and leaving them to dry over the edge of the bathtub.

I do my best to dry off with the towel, but rainwater clings to the ends of my hair, trailing cold rivulets down my spine.

I blot them away slowly, the towel catching on the raised goosebumps along my skin.

My heartbeat is starting to settle. My breath too.

It surprises me, how not-terrified I feel now.

I should be trembling still. I usually would be.

But instead, I’m here—barefoot in a horse-print bathroom, wrung out and safe in the warmth of a man who literally walked through a storm to get me.

I shake my head a little, lips parting on a dry breath. God, I was so stupid. Hiding in the dark like that, curling in on myself like it would keep anything out. I could’ve just come here right away, explained where the fear comes from. I should’ve.

I take a last look at the underwear I’d peeled off and draped over the edge of the tub, a scrap of lace and elastic so sodden it looks like something fished from the bottom of a lake.

There’s no backup in the stack Mason left me, and the thought of going commando in his clothes makes my face go hot and prickly, even as my skin is still half-chilled from the storm.

I reach for the clothes, fingers brushing the soft fabric.

They smell like him—cedar and clean cotton, and something warm underneath.

I tug the henley over my head first. It slips easily down my body, sleeves past my wrists.

The sweatpants take some wrangling, oversized and slouchy, the drawstring long gone.

I roll the waistband twice before it stays.

When I glance up at the mirror, I barely recognize the girl staring back. Hair damp and wild, pink cheeks, and nipples visible through Mason’s shirt hanging off one shoulder.

My fingers tug gently at the hem of the shirt. I hold it there. Just press the cotton between my thumb and palm and breathe him in.

Like if I stand here long enough, I might figure out what the hell is going on with my life and how I ended up here.

And how do I stay?

The hallway is quiet, just the hush of rain against the windows and the low murmur of the sound machine from Theo’s room. The living room glows in soft amber light, a single lamp casting lazy shadows across the floor.

I step past the threshold and pause.

Mason’s hunched over the too-small couch, blanket in one hand, pillow in the other.

“What are you doing?” I murmur, stopping just outside the wooden baby gate fence that surrounds the living room.

He straightens and turns toward me. “I’m gonna sleep out here tonight. You take the bed.”

“You’re six-foot-something,” I say, stepping over the fence and dodging a set of teething rings and a rogue sippy cup. “That couch is five-foot-nothing. Math isn’t on your side.”

Mason glances up. One brow lifts, unimpressed. “I’ll be fine.”

He’s changed out of his storm-soaked clothes and into a faded T-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts.

His hair is still damp, but less so, and I wonder when he managed to change, or where.

I’d been in his bathroom the whole time.

Maybe the laundry room? Maybe he just stood dripping in the hallway, not caring if he wrecked the floor, and yanked off his shirt right there, because that’s the kind of person he is.

I picture it for a second: Mason, bare-chested in the hallway, thunder rattling the windows while he shucks off his shirt, more focused on getting dry than on the mess. The image burns through my mind, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

“Well,” I say, crossing my arms, “I’m not going to sleep in your bed if you’re out here breaking your back on a couch that’s literally too small for you to lay on.”

His gaze flicks up, meeting mine. There’s a long, silent standoff, like he’s trying to decide if I’m joking or not. I think he’s about to say something clever, but instead he just lets out a breath that could knock down a wall.

“Really, Trouble? You wanna argue with me right now?” He arches a brow, but there’s no heat in his voice. If anything, he sounds faintly amused.

“I’m not arguing, Mase. I’m being reasonable.” I gesture at the couch.

His mouth twitches with an almost-smile, but then it flattens into something stubborn, a line you could sharpen a knife on.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a pain in the ass?” he deadpans, fluffing a pillow like it’s the most important task.

My brows reach my hairline, and I don’t even have to fake my innocence. “Nope,” I tell him, making sure to pop the “p.”

He hums under his breath but doesn’t stop fixing the blanket.

An idea sparks, and I spin around with a mumbled, “Fine.” I hop over the baby gate and march toward his bedroom.

“I knew you’d see it my way. Have a good sleep, Trouble,” he calls after me softly.

My smile grows into a smirk, imagining the expression on his face when he sees my plan.

A few minutes later, I’m back in the living room, a pillow under one arm, and a throw blanket under the other. Mason is draped off of the small couch, head on one end and legs hanging off the other end. I knew he was too big for that couch.

“What’re you doing?” he mumbles, arching a brow.

I drop the pillow and blanket to the rug. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Is that right?” He folds his arms across his chest and stares at me. His eyes look like the color of the ocean during a storm, dark and intense. But I don’t cower away from his gaze.

“Right here,” I continue, clearing a little space in the collection of toys. “Between the singing octopus and the box of blocks.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Abby?—”

“I’ll be fine.” I lift my chin, parroting his words back at him.

He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

I tilt my head, waiting.

“Just go back to my bed.”

And here it is. The opening I was hoping for. I swipe my tongue across my bottom lip and deliver the ultimatum.

“Only if you come with me.” The words fall out quiet but sure, soft and stubborn at once.

He freezes, his eyes snapping up to lock onto mine. I hold his gaze, refusing to look away. The moment stretches—one heartbeat, then another. His jaw tightens, a subtle twitch betraying the tension beneath his composed exterior.

I can see it in the set of his mouth, the way one muscle jumps in his cheek. He’s trying to find a way around it, trying to gauge if he can talk me out of it.

For a split second, he looks away. When his eyes come back, there’s something raw in them. Not a threat, not a plea. Just an unguarded ache.

He stands up. Slowly, like every inch is an act of surrender. He’s so much bigger than me, but for once I don’t feel small. I feel seen .

He bypasses the baby gate with more grace than I did and gestures for me to lead the way, which is ironic, since it’s his bedroom.

We walk the hallway side by side, close enough that I brush his arm with every third step. I hear the sound machine’s lull spilling from Theo’s room, a gentle shush-shush that provides a barrier between us and the storm outside.

In his bedroom, the air is faintly cooler. There’s none of the lived-in clutter of the kitchen and living room. The walls are bare except for a few photos above his dresser of him with his mom and brother and a candid shot of him and Theo, the same one I saw in Theo’s nursery.

The bed’s mostly made with dark gray sheets, one side rumpled, the other side untouched. There’s a half-full laundry basket in the corner and a stack of parenting books on the shelf on his nightstand.

I hesitate by the door, suddenly aware of how quiet it is in here. It’s just the rain, and the shush of Theo through the monitor on the nightstand, and the sound of Mason breathing behind me.

He’s waiting for me to do something. Or say something. Or change my mind.

Instead, I turn down the covers and crawl into the made side of the bed, pulling my knees up, tucking my feet under the thick comforter.

The sheets smell like clean laundry and a hint of cedar and maybe something just a little sweeter.

Like the ghost of the apple shampoo I used to use in high school, and I wonder if that’s just memory playing tricks on me.

I watch Mason stand in the doorway, arms folded, the light from the hallway carving shadows down his face.

He looks like he’s wrestling a demon, or maybe a dozen small ones, each with my name stitched on its chest.

“Don’t worry, I don’t snore,” I say, softer than I mean to.

He huffs, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “I know.”