Page 41 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

MASON

The smell of her is still on my skin.

Sunshine and cherries. Sweat and sex.

I haven’t even put my belt back on—just tugged my jeans up and sat there for a second, elbows on my knees, chest still heaving like I ran ten miles instead of just sinking inside of the woman of my dreams.

I blow out a breath.

Jesus .

I tug the zipper up and lean back against the garage wall. The wooden panel thuds dully under my spine.

I can still hear her laugh. That soft, breathless one that gets under my skin and stays there.

Everything’s still warm. Loose. My muscles feel like overcooked pasta.

She kissed the hell out of me before she left for my shower, all pretty and smug and a little dazed from coming around me twice?

Three times? I lost count, but it seems like something I should keep track of. For future reference.

And maybe future record-breaking.

I can’t stop grinning.

Until I do.

Because suddenly I’m thinking about the way she looked riding me. How tight she was. How wet. How I didn’t even stop to grab a condom.

My heart stutters. Not from panic, not at first. At first it’s this low, dark thrill that ripples down my back and lands, sharp and hot, in my gut.

The idea of tying her to me like that—of making it irreversible, inescapable—should scare me.

And it does, a little. But it’s the kind of fear that makes you want to do it anyway, just to see what happens.

Fuck .

I press both palms to my face, dragging down until my skin feels raw. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I wasn’t, obviously. She had me so turned inside out I couldn’t have spelled my own name, let alone reach for protection.

It’s not rational. It’s not responsible.

It’s just that being with her is the only thing that’s ever made me forget the part of myself that keeps a spreadsheet of every possible way things can go wrong. And for a minute there, I liked it. I liked not thinking about the consequences.

But now the consequences are thinking about me.

I swallow, hard. The metallic tang of panic starts to bleed into the afterglow. I glance down at my hands—they’re shaking. Not a lot, just enough to make the calluses on my palms itch. I flex my fingers and try to slow my breathing. It doesn’t work.

It’s not that I don’t want her. It’s just that I know she’s gonna leave at some point.

This is a vacation for her, an escape. But for me, it’s my life.

The crunch of tires over gravel pulls me from my thoughts.

I push off the wall and walk toward the open bay door, boots echoing on the concrete floor.

The wind carries the scent of rain still lingering from early this morning, the sky a heavy kind of gray that looks like it’s thinking about starting something.

A familiar black SUV rolls into view just beyond the bend in the driveway.

Of all the goddamn timing for my best friend to drop by.

He kills the engine and steps out, grin already stretching across his face.

“What’s up?” I ask, keeping my weight leaned into the doorframe. One hand hooked on my hip. The very image of cool and unbothered. Not at all like I just had his sister riding me six ways to hell ten minutes ago.

Beau pushes his sunglasses into his hair. “Can’t a guy stop by and see his best friend?”

I smirk. “So, Eloise is busy, huh?”

“She’s helping Francesca at the shop. Vivie and Margot are at school. I had a window. Figured I’d come check on that Chevelle. Dunne’s, right?”

“Yeah. He brought it over the other day.”

Beau whistles low as he strolls toward the car. “Didn’t he already race it?”

I shrug. “Ran clean. But I tuned the carb, adjusted the idle, swapped the intake. She’s got bite now.”

Beau runs a palm across the roof. “You think he’s gunnin’ for the Gauntlet this fall?”

“If he gets the invite. Kid’s not bad.”

“Shit,” he mutters, popping his head under the hood. “With these tweaks? He might blow right past the Harris boys.”

I grunt, but a flicker of something else stirs under the surface. I missed this. Talking cars and talking shit. The way we used to spend entire weekends under a hood, grease in our veins and something reckless pounding in our chests.

A few years back, Beau quit racing. Then this year, he jumped into the Gauntlet like it was nothing. I didn’t ask why—but now I know: Eloise. She was racing in the Gauntlet, and of course he had to join too. Just to talk to her. Because my best friend doesn’t do anything in half-measures.

But by the time he got back in the game, I was already out. I had Theo. I couldn’t afford broken ribs or blue-and-red lights in my rearview because some asshole wanted to sabotage the competition.

So yeah, it’s been years since we did this. But the rhythm’s still there. We slip back into it easily. There’s comfort in that, nostalgia even.

Not enough to dull the panic prickling the back of my neck—but it steadies my hands a little.

I track his movements as he rounds the front of the car—six feet from the chair I fucked his sister in.

My jaw ticks.

I feel it in my teeth. Like pressure building under my skin. A knot of heat and fear that tightens with every second he stays in this space—my space—talking like nothing’s changed.

Like I didn’t just cross a line I can’t uncross.

A sharp cry breaks through the garage like a crack of thunder.

I freeze mid-shift, my gaze flying to the monitor.

Theo’s voice cuts through the static, scratchy in that overtired way—high and short, like he woke up too fast and isn’t sure if he’s pissed or confused.

Shit.

I cross the garage in four fast strides and jab the volume down on the baby monitor like I’m disarming something live. The screen flickers once before quiet hums back into the space.

Out of the corner of my eye, Beau’s eyebrows lift.

“You good?” he asks.

“’Course.”

He laughs a little under his breath. “Didn’t peg you for the cry-it-out type.”

“I’m not.” It comes out clipped, and I school my tone. “He probably just woke up too early.”

I forgot Abby turned the volume up earlier. Said she didn’t want to worry about not being able to hear Theo.

She was just in here—bare legs and bare feet, and that sly little smile that still hasn’t left my skin. I should’ve noticed. Should’ve turned it down the second she walked out.

But I didn’t. Because I like having the monitor on.

Even when she’s watching Theo, even when I know everything’s fine. I like the way it settles me. Seeing him breathe. Seeing her in my house.

Sometimes she’ll lean over the crib, tuck the sleep sack around him just so, her hair falling in a soft curtain while she hums under her breath—low and melodic.

It steadies something in me. Or it did. Now it feels like the air's gone tight around my ribs.

Beau’s watching me with raised brows and a hundred questions on his face.

And the longer I stand here, the louder the silence gets.

“You sure you’re okay, man?” Beau’s voice cuts through the thick silence like a scalpel.

I grunt, already moving toward the door. “Yeah. Theo’s just been cranky lately. Sleep regression, maybe. Cutting a tooth.”

Little white lies. Not untrue, not really. He is cutting a tooth. And he has been fighting that damn regression. But cranky? Not today. Not until now .

“Pfft. Doesn’t bother me,” Beau calls after me, jogging to keep up. “Vivie’s gonna be pissed she missed out on Theo time, though. She’s been asking to come over again, but I know you’ve been trying to get into a rhythm with your ma gone. I don’t know how much longer I can hold her off.”

I don’t answer. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m busy scrambling.

Every possible move plays out in my head like a disaster drill. There's no graceful way to keep him out of the house short of physically barring the door. And that would raise every red flag Beau owns.

So I let the screen creak open and step into the kitchen, heart hammering against my ribs like it wants out. Everything’s quiet. No wet footprints. No trace of Abby in the living room. I can only pray she’s not in the hallway. Or worse, walking out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel.

Theo whines softly from the nursery. The sound twists something in my chest.

I move fast, easing the door open and crouching beside his crib. His face is scrunched, red-cheeked and pouty, the kind of frustration that says this isn’t how I wanted to wake up . I scoop him up and press my lips to his head.

“Yeah, buddy,” I murmur. “Not what you were expecting, huh? I’d be pissed too if I thought I was getting Abby and got stuck with me instead.”

His little hand fists my shirt, grumbly and unimpressed.

Beau’s waiting in the kitchen, already pulling a chair out from the island. He chuckles, but it’s less mirth and more awe. “Man, I don’t know how you do it. I don’t know if I could do the solo parenting thing.”

“You could.” Because you’d have to. Because if you don’t do it, no one will.

He drags his hand over his jaw, covering a small smile. “Nah, man. Not like you. You’re fuckin’ killing it as a dad.”

I look anywhere but at my best friend, feeling heat prickle along the back of my neck. “Thanks, man.”

The pipes groan along one wall of the kitchen, over the sink. I cringe and refuse to glance toward my bedroom.

Beau’s brow arches. “So. Who’s in your shower?”