Page 4 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

The bell over the Coffee Shop door jingles just as I step inside, and for a second, I just breathe.

Cozy warmth hits me in the face, the scent of blueberry muffins and espresso curling into my lungs.

There’s a soft murmur of conversation beneath a mellow acoustic playlist, and sunlight spills through the tall windows like honey.

It feels good to be back in Avalon Falls.

Lately, I’ve been spending more time here.

Weddings, weekends, long stretches where Seattle starts to feel less like home.

At first, it made sense—Graham’s wedding, all the family stuff.

But now? I’m not sure if I keep coming back because it’s familiar, or because I don’t know where else I’m supposed to be.

And somehow, I wasn’t expecting that.

I glance around at the large chalkboard menu behind the counter, at the long corkboard runner stretched across the far wall. It's layered with old flyers, local events, missing pet notices, faded bake sale announcements.

I’m halfway toward the counter, reaching for my wallet, when I walk right into someone.

“Oh gosh—sorry—” I start, already stepping back.

But then a familiar scent cuts through the espresso—ocean salt and cedar, sharp and clean. My body reacts before my brain catches up, something primal and unreasonably attuned.

Mason Porter.

His name hits my ribcage like a fist.

Surprise glues my tongue to the roof of my mouth as the two of us just freeze .

For a second, it’s like the air folds inward. Like we’re both suspended in the same moment, waiting for the world to un-pause.

It’s silly, my reaction. We’ve been casually texting for months. I’ve seen him at my parents’ dinner table more than once this year. And yet, this feels different.

Not distant or formal. Just . . . unscripted. And very, very close.

I should’ve expected him. He’s the local, and I’m the visitor. Kind of. And yet I’m wholly unprepared to come face to chest with the man who wears that faded blue flannel like it was made just for him. Soft cotton. Broad shoulders. Jeans that cling to his thighs like a second skin.

His beard’s a little longer. But his eyes—they are exactly the same. Stormy blue with silver flecks bleeding outward, like lightning in slow motion. And when he looks at me, really looks, it feels like a hand trailing from my throat to my hips. Down. My breath catches for just a second too long.

“Trouble.” The nickname is low and rough, his voice skimming along my skin like a secret.

A reflexive smirk curves the corner of my mouth. “I haven’t heard that one in a while.” Not since I was a teenager, sneaking through the woods just to see what my brother’s best friend was up to.

He lifts one shoulder, gaze skimming my face like he’s reading an old map. A soft smile tugs at his mouth, half-familiar, half-strange. “Still fits, don’t you think?”

My hair slips over my shoulder as I tilt my head. “Nah. I’m on the straight and narrow now.”

“Is that right, hm?” His hand lifts slowly, his fingers brushing through the ends of my hair for a reckless heartbeat. “Blondes have more fun, isn’t that how it goes?”

My lips twist as his hand drops back to his side. “Something like that.”

His gaze lingers on mine for a breath longer than expected. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

I blink. Once. Twice.

“Okay,” I say slowly, dragging the word out like it might shape-shift into a question. This is new. Mason Porter offering to buy me coffee like we’re two regular people.

Still, I dip my chin in a nod. “Sure.”

The barista calls out, “I can help whoever’s next.”

Mason turns, stepping forward with a quiet ease that still somehow takes up more space than it should. He gestures toward the counter, his palm lifting slightly behind my lower back—a touch that doesn’t quite land, but radiates heat anyway. My skin prickles like he pressed a handprint there.

What the hell is happening right now?

I step up to the register, still half-convinced I fell asleep on the flight back last night and this is all part of some absurd dream. Like I’ve been dropped into an alternate timeline where Mason is—what? Flirty? Attentive? Soft?

Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at him again, searching for any sign that he’s been body-snatched. Face-swapped. Replaced with a glitch in the matrix.

But no. He looks exactly the same. Too much the same.

Worn blue flannel layered over a dark gray tee.

Jeans that cling indecently to his thighs.

Hair a little longer than last time I saw him, curled slightly at the ends like he pushed his hands through it earlier and didn’t bother to fix it.

His beard frames that unfair mouth of his, and the corners of his eyes crinkle like he’s trying not to smile.

My life would be so much easier if I didn’t find him so goddamn attractive.

“Welcome to the Coffee Shop. What can I get started for you?” the barista asks, voice bright and familiar.

“Hi. Iced shaken espresso, please,” I say, hoping the steadiness of my tone makes up for the chaos in my bloodstream.

“You got it. And your regular, Mason?” the barista asks, flicking a glance over my shoulder.

I blink and step slightly to the side as Mason steps forward. So, he’s a regular here. Not surprising, but something in me logs it anyway.

“Let’s try the pistachio latte today. Iced, please, Collin. Extra whip.”

The barista nods and rings us up. Before I can reach for my wallet, Mason’s already sliding his card into the reader.

“Thanks.” It comes out quieter than I meant it to.

He lifts a shoulder, casual and unbothered. “What can I say? I’m committed.”

We move toward the pickup window and settle at the short stretch of counter tucked into the corner of the café. It’s quieter here. Cozy. One of those spaces Avalon Falls specializes in—half-hidden and quietly magical.

I lean back against the warm, exposed brick wall and glance around. Most of the bistro tables are full, which isn’t surprising for a Sunday morning. What does surprise me is how many people I don’t recognize.

That’s the thing about this town. It’s small, but not that small. Just big enough for two elementary schools. Two middle schools. Two high schools. And a dozen micro-worlds that don't overlap unless something forces them to.

Like now.

A second barista sets our drinks down with a soft smile. “Here you go. Enjoy.”

Mason grabs his cup first. I glance at the mountain of whipped cream and bite back a grin. Bold choice for nine a.m. He catches my expression instantly.

“Something to say, Trouble?”

That nickname. That inflection . My stomach dips.

I give him my most innocent look—wide-eyed and just shy of condescending. “Just . . . pleasantly surprised by your drink order.”

He lifts his cup in a mock salute, eyes glinting. “I have a sweet tooth. What can I say?”

My breath catches with the smallest hitch, as heat curls low and slow in my stomach. It’s ridiculous, the effect one smirk can have. But the look he gives me—casual and loaded all at once—lands hard.

Then he steps closer, the space between us narrowing by degrees. That slow grin of his? It should come with a warning label.

“Try it,” he says, giving the pistachio latte a lazy swirl before offering it to me like a peace offering. Or maybe a trap. “And I dare you not to like it.”

I stare at him, my heart starting to trip over itself. “You dare me?”

His mouth curves wider. “What, are you scared?”

God, what is this? My pulse surges like a live current under my skin.

“Scared of whipped cream and pistachios? Please .”

Our fingers brush as I take the cup, and the smug smile on his face slips a little. I take a sip before I can overthink it. The latte is smooth and nutty, barely sweet with a warm, creamy finish. And it's annoyingly good.

I hum under my breath. “Okay, so it’s not bad.”

He laughs, all dimple and quiet satisfaction. “Admit it. You’re one sip away from ordering your own.”

I hand the cup back, and our fingers brush again—too soft, too brief, too much. He clears his throat and takes it from me, lifting it to his mouth and drinking from the exact spot I just did.

I shouldn’t notice that. But I do. And when I glance away, it’s not because I’m embarrassed—it’s because Jesus Christ , that shouldn’t be so hot.

What is going on with me?

I need to get laid. Or maybe just touched. I read a romance novel once where the heroine didn’t realize she was touch-starved until she started cataloguing every time the hero so much as grazed her hand. I didn’t get it at the time. But I think I do now.

“How long are you in town for?” he asks, voice lower now. Intimate.

I shake my head. “Just the weekend. I fly back tonight.”

His jaw ticks—barely—but I catch it anyway. Something twists low in my stomach, uncertain and sharp-edged.

“I’ve been making more of an effort, though,” I add, shifting the plastic lid on my drink. “Coming home more often, seeing the family. They’re all paired off now, married or close enough, and I don’t know…” I exhale. “I guess I don’t want to miss anything.”

Mason nods slowly, something unreadable settling behind his eyes. “Yeah. I get that.”

His voice has softened again, and it makes my heart squeeze in a way that has nothing to do with nostalgia. I realize I haven’t asked the one thing I meant to.

“How’s Theo?” I ask. “I was hoping to see him. He’s kind of a celebrity in my camera roll now, thanks to you.”

Mason’s whole face shifts—brighter, warmer. “He’s with my mom today. She’s squeezing in every last minute before she heads to Crestwood. It’s Callum's final regular season game, and if they make it through regionals, they've got a shot at the Frozen Four.”

I hum under my breath. “Hockey, right? Any games near here?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. Different district. But he’s got a shot at regionals this year, so she’s doing the full hockey-mom Airbnb circuit.”

There’s a pause. It's not awkward, but charged. The kind that feels like something unsaid is floating in the space between us.

“Well, if you ever need someone to hang with Theo . . .” My voice trails off as I realize how that sounds. Too eager. I resist the urge to wince.

Mason glances down at me, smile barely-there and hard to read. “From Seattle?”

I blink once, flustered. Damn that dimple. “Right. Yeah. I mean, if I’m in town.”

His expression doesn’t shift, but something behind his eyes does. He doesn’t say yes. But he doesn’t say no either.

“Will I see you at my parents’ tonight?” I ask after a beat.

He shakes his head, gaze flicking to the specials chalkboard behind the counter. “Dinner plans with my mom. Figured I’d give her one more quiet night before she’s sleeping on hockey arena benches.”

“Right.”

I hook my thumb over my shoulder, retreat already in motion. “Anyway, I better get to Fiction & Folklore. Francesca’s waiting for me. Something about a book club.”

“Of course.” His voice is quiet now. A little rough. His gaze skims my face again, like he’s memorizing me. “It was really good to see you, Abby.”

“Yeah.” My voice is soft too. “You too.”

I take a slow step backward, a small smile pulling at my mouth. “See you around, Mason.”

His mouth opens like he might say something. But he doesn’t.

We don’t say goodbye. We never really do.

But when I glance back, just before I reach the door, he’s still standing there. Watching me like he almost said something.

And didn’t.