Page 6 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

I push the door open and step into the low light and hazy noise of The Blue Door. The air is warm and a little sticky, scented with cheap beer and something sweet—cherry syrup, maybe, from those house sodas they stock from that local company.

A slow guitar riff hums from the old speaker system. Not live—just a looped track bleeding out the last few notes of someone’s earlier set.

I pause just past the threshold, scanning instinctively for Henry. He’s usually parked on a stool near the door, arms crossed, one brow raised like he’s seen every version of every person that’s ever walked in.

But his spot’s empty. It’s not unusual for him to step away for a smoke or take five in the alley behind the bar. But somehow, the lack of that gruff nod as I walk in leaves the whole place feeling a little off-kilter.

That’s the first thing I notice. The second is how strange it feels to be here without a guitar in my hand.

I haven’t stepped foot inside The Blue Door in weeks. Not since before that impromptu weekend trip to Avalon Falls. And now, this place—once the closest thing I had to salvation on the West Coast—feels unfamiliar. Like it doesn’t quite fit anymore.

Maybe that’s just the exhaustion talking.

I should’ve gone home. Washed off the makeup, tossed my heels into the back of the closet, and collapsed under the weight of a day I’ve been preparing for since January.

But something about the buzz under my skin wouldn’t let me.

Not adrenaline. Not quite joy. Just that wired, hollow feeling that follows a high-stakes event.

The kind where you smile until your cheeks ache, talk to so many people your own voice starts sounding fake.

Then drive home in silence, wondering if anyone actually saw you.

Tonight, I just needed somewhere to land.

Somewhere that wasn’t my empty apartment.

Somewhere that didn’t echo with my boss’s too-loud praise or the leftover catering stacked beside a curated floral arch that cost more than my rent.

Somewhere I can escape the constant buzz of texts and emails that haven’t stopped in hours.

I’m one poorly punctuated work message away from tossing my phone into the Pacific.

The gala had gone off without a hitch, thank God.

I spent months planning it. Five hundred donors, two string quartets, a six-tier floral arch, and three rounds of champagne flutes delivered exactly on cue.

No one tripped, cried, or spilled. Not even the overly ambitious intern who wore four-inch heels and a fear of authority.

Every speech landed. Every guest left happy.

It was perfect. And I’m so tired I can barely breathe.

But I can’t go home yet. Not with my adrenaline still spiking, my head still buzzing from too many platitudes and too much practiced charm. So I came here.

Not for company. Not really.

Just for a drink. And maybe for the silence that only a bar at midnight can offer. Or maybe because it’s the only place I’ve been showing up lately that doesn’t require a smile and a clipboard. The only place that still feels somewhat mine.

Beth glances up as I approach the bar. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, cheeks flushed with exertion. Her arms move quickly, efficiently, a stack of half-wiped glasses to her left and tension tightening the crease between her brows.

She startles slightly when she sees me. “Abby.” Her smile flickers—quick and bright, like a match struck in the dark. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

I slide onto a stool in the corner and slip out of my blazer, folding it across my lap. “Hey, Beth. How are you?” I offer a small smile, but my gaze catches on her hair. It’s hard to tell in the low light, but it looks a few shades lighter than I remember. “You dyed your hair.”

She tosses the towel over her shoulder and a strand slips loose, falling into her face.

I tell myself it’s just the lighting. But something in my chest shifts at the startlingly familiar shade of blonde. Too familiar.

I resist the ridiculous urge to undo my French twist—just to be sure it’s not the same.

“Yeah,” she says, a little breathless as she tucks the fallen lock behind her ear. “I took your advice—but I don’t know. Still getting used to it.”

I settle back on the stool, softening my expression despite the ache in my cheeks. It costs me a little, but I dig up something real. A genuine smile, even if the edges feel a little frayed. “I think it looks great on you.”

“You think?” she asks, her brows arching as she looks at me.

“Definitely.”

Beth’s smile stretches wide, and she glances down. “Thanks, Abby. Can I get you anything? We’re out of that peaches and cream soda you like, but?—”

“I’ll take a glass of champagne, if you’ve got it.”

Beth pauses, surprise flickering across her face. “Your fancy event tonight went well, I take it?”

I glance up, caught off guard.

She lifts one shoulder, like it’s nothing. “I run The Blue Door’s socials. The algorithm serves me lots of local businesses and events."

I nod, unsure whether she follows me or just follows the nonprofit account. Probably the latter. They’d been filming content all night—tagging staff and uploading reels mid-event. My phone’s still buzzing with notifications I haven’t opened.

“It was a long one,” I say vaguely, fingers toying with the edge of a coaster. “But yeah. It went well.”

She turns away to grab my drink, and I let out a quiet breath.

Nana Jo would’ve opened a bottle of champagne for something like this. She believed in celebrating even the small wins—the ones that didn’t come with applause or flowers or catered dessert trays. The ones that were just . . . surviving another hard thing.

She returns with two flutes, setting one down in front of me and keeping the other. “It's bad luck to cheers alone.”

I smile, soft and a little surprised. We clink glasses, and I take a sip, letting the fizz cut through the heaviness in my chest. Beth drains hers in one go.

“You okay?” I ask, my brows lifting.

She exhales and places her glass back down.

“Just a night. My closer called in. The duo that was supposed to play canceled. Henry’s kid has the flu and his backup’s a no-show.

So it’s just me and Ashley.” Her gaze flicks around the room as she talks.

It moves too fast to be casual. “But we’ll manage.

” She flashes me a quick, bright smile. “We always do.”

An hour slips by as I nurse my second glass of champagne.

The bar is louder now, like the closer we get to closing time, the noisier people get.

Or maybe the drunker. A table near the back has gotten increasingly rowdy, laughter rising in waves like tide surges, crashing against the easy hum of conversation.

Beth keeps moving behind the bar, her ponytail swinging as she pulls drafts and mixes drinks. Every so often, she sends me a quick glance with a tight-lipped smile.

I finish the last sip of my drink and set the empty flute down gently. My phone screen is black beside it. Battery drained sometime during the last chorus of whatever alt-country song is humming from the speaker overhead.

I should feel anxious. But all I feel is . . . relief. Like I’ve slipped underwater, and for once, no one can reach me.

I catch Beth’s eye as she circles back toward my end of the bar. “I’m gonna head out,” I say, my voice low as I tug my blazer from the back of my chair. “Have a good night.”

“Thanks, you too. See you this week now that your event’s over?” she asks, her smile tipping hopeful.

I lift my shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. “Maybe.” Work’s not slowing down yet, not for another week or two at least. And even if it was, I’m not sure I have the energy for anything right now but sleep and silence.

“Yeah, okay. Let me know.” Her smile slips a little as her gaze flicks toward the back table, where one guy has started tapping his beer bottle against the wood in time with a song that ended two minutes ago.

I flash a tired smile and smooth my hand over my collar. “Good luck with them,” I say, tilting my head toward the group in the back.

Beth snorts under her breath. “Thanks. I think I’ll need it.”

I flutter my fingers in a quiet goodbye and start weaving through the maze of high tops and low lighting.

I give the rowdy table a wide berth, hugging the far side of the room, avoiding eye contact.

My heels click softly against the scuffed floor, and the thought of my bed tugs at me like gravity—clean sheets, cold pillow, the safety of not having to be anything for anyone.

I’m only steps from the door when something in the air shifts. Not the temperature exactly, but the pressure. Like the way the sky tightens right before a summer storm splits open.

“What did you just say?” a man near the front of the bar demands, his voice sharp and rising.

It takes me a second to register he’s not talking to me.

Another voice—louder, slurred, more mean—rings out behind me. “I said, maybe if your woman wasn’t such a controlling bitch, you’d actually be having fun with your boys.”

The woman in front of me gasps, sharp and indignant, but it’s drowned out by the chorus of male laughter behind me.

The man beside her shoves to his feet. His chair scrapes back against the floor with the screeching pitch of nails on a chalkboard. “Say that again,” he snarls, his body surging forward.

Not toward me, no, toward the voice behind me.

And I realize, too late, I’m in the worst possible place.

Dead center. In no man's land between them. I try to sidestep, to slip between the edge of the bar and the mass of surrounding tables, but everyone else has the same idea. It’s a crush of bodies, a collective cringe away from where I’m standing.

Time folds in on itself.

One guy lunges. Another throws a punch. More people jump in—shouting, pushing, bottles clinking too hard against wood. And I’m in the middle. Frozen.

A sharp elbow clips the side of my face, hard.

White-hot pain explodes across my cheekbone and radiates down into my jaw. My vision blurs at the edges. I stumble, arms flailing, and slam into the edge of a nearby table. Glass shatters. Voices rise into shouts. I think someone screams. It might be me.

“Oh my god—Abby—shit—” Beth’s voice is too close, too sharp, sliced through with panic.

My knees hit the ground, my palm landing in something wet. Everything is ringing. Heat roars under my skin, pulsing in jagged waves. My head swims, and my stomach flips. I must've bit my cheek, because I can taste blood.

I look up through blurry vision and see chaos around me.

"I need to get the fuck out of here."