Page 9 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

MASON

The Carter house rises at the end of the long paved drive, porch lights already glowing warm against the early dusk.

Hanging baskets overflow with trailing greenery, and the neat stone path up to the steps is lined with flowers Hazel probably planted herself.

It always looks like this—well-kept, inviting.

Like a postcard for a life that never once belonged to me, even when I was practically living here.

Even now, after all these years, something in me tightens when I pull in. Like I’m bracing for the moment someone finally says I don’t belong.

I kill the engine and scan the familiar line of cars. Graham’s truck. Beau’s Challenger, backed in like always.

I glance in the rearview mirror, checking on my son through the baby mirror clipped to the headrest. Theo’s cheeks are flushed pink, his eyelids heavy. He’s still gripping his stuffed lion like it owes him something.

It’s the danger zone. That blurry stretch between nap and bedtime—too late to sleep, too early to crash. If he dozes off for more than ten minutes now, bedtime becomes a full-scale war later. And believe me, a sleep strike at night is worse than any skipped nap.

I climb out of the truck and open the back door, leaning in. “You ready for chaos, little man?” I murmur as I unbuckle him. His fingers curl tighter around the lion. I nudge his knee gently, just enough to make him blink. “Let’s go charm some Carters.”

This house has always been loud—full of motion, food, voices layered over each other. It’s the kind of place that smells like cinnamon in the fall and charcoal in the summer. Where everyone knocks, sure, but only once before stepping inside.

For most of my life, it’s been the closest thing I’ve had to a safe haven. But even so, there’s always been a line. Not a harsh one—just . . . there. A quiet reminder that this isn’t mine. Not really.

Lately, I’ve felt that more than ever.

I lift Theo from the car seat, already wondering how much longer I can squeeze out of the bucket version before I’ve gotta upgrade to the next level—one of those rear-facing, five-point harness setups that he’ll be in for at least a year. Probably longer if he keeps eating like he does.

“Alright, bud,” I murmur, lifting him up and settling him on my hip, “let’s go eat some of Mrs. Carter’s famous lasagna and pretend to laugh at Uncle Beau’s shitty jokes.”

I should probably start curbing the language. One of these days, the kid’s first word is gonna be shit , or worse. I tuck that thought onto the never-ending pile of stuff I’m supposed to be better about.

Theo drops his head to my collarbone, face turned in, his breath warm against my neck. I like to think it’s a hug.

I rub a few slow circles between his shoulder blades, balancing him as I sling the diaper bag over one shoulder and kick the truck door shut behind me.

“Love you too, little man,” I whisper. “You’re tired tonight, huh? Cry if you want us to leave early, okay?”

His soft baby scent is already sinking into my hoodie—baby lotion and Cheerios and whatever magic smell babies come with that you don’t get to keep.

I hitch the bag higher on my shoulder and make my way up the walk.

The front door is closed—always is, this time of year.

Hazel keeps it shut tight to trap the arctic blast of air-conditioning inside, like she’s trying to refrigerate the whole first floor.

Funny, considering she spends most of her day elbow-deep in greenhouse heat.

I shift Theo up on my arm, knock twice on the screen door, then once more for good measure.

Just because I’ve been showing up to Carter family dinners since I was twelve doesn’t mean I’ve ever stopped asking to come in.

A few seconds later, the inner door swings open and Lucas Carter fills the frame, wiping his hands on a dish towel and wearing that easy, perpetual smile of his.

“Mason,” he says, warm and certain, like my name itself means something good.

I shift Theo and smile. “How ya doing, Lucas?”

It took me years to call him by his first name. For the longest time, he was Mr. Carter, even after he told me not to be so formal. Maybe it came with age. Or fatherhood. Or finally realizing that respect doesn’t always have to come with a title.

Lucas huffs out a quiet laugh and opens his arms wide in welcome. “Come on in, son. Hazel’s making her best pan of lasagna yet.”

The scent hits me as soon as I step inside—garlic, slow-roasted tomatoes, maybe something fresh and green like basil. It rolls through the entry like a warm tide, and my stomach growls on cue.

Lucas grins. “Imagine how I feel. I’ve been baking in this smell for hours. Skipped lunch so I can get two helpings tonight.”

He pats his stomach with exaggerated flair, then turns toward the bundle in my arms with a softer smile. “And how’s our guy doing today, mm?”

“He’s great. Just crashed a few minutes before we pulled in though, so he might take a minute to wake up.”

Lucas smiles at that, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Ah, I get it, buddy. If I could nap right now, believe me—I would. Hazel had me pulling weeds all afternoon.”

He says it with the kind of faux grumble that doesn’t fool anyone.

Because if there’s one thing Lucas Carter’s known for—outside of being steady as bedrock—it’s how damn much he adores his wife.

He’d dig up the whole backyard by hand if she asked.

And he’d do it with that same smile, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

Lucas leads us into the living room where Beau and Graham are camped out on the couch, a baseball game flickering on the flat screen.

The sound of it fills the space: announcers talking over each other, the distant crack of a bat.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Beau calls, eyes still locked on the screen. “We were about to start without you.”

I grin. “Like your mom would ever let that happen.”

“Mason,” Graham says with a dip of his chin.

“Graham.” I match his tone, easy and even. It’s not cold—he’s just gotten quieter over the years. More reserved. I don’t mind meeting him where he’s at.

Hazel appears in the opening that leads down the short hallway from the kitchen, drying her hands on a faded dishtowel.

“Don't listen to him, Mason. I'd never start without you.” She crosses the room in quick strides and pulls both me and Theo into a warm hug, arms wrapping around us like muscle memory. “Gosh, he’s gotten so big,” she murmurs, fingers brushing tenderly over the soft fuzz of Theo’s hair.

“Ma, you just saw him a couple weeks ago,” Beau says, rounding the couch and heading our way with a crooked smile.

Hazel shoots her youngest son a sharp look, brow arched and lips pursed. It’s a look I recognize—burned into memory from a childhood spent under this roof more than my own.

“It’s been over a month, and babies change so much at this age,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Something you’d know if you had any of your own.”

But her gaze lingers a second too long, her mouth twitching at the corners like she’s holding back something softer. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she looked hopeful . The kind of look I’ve seen her give Cora lately. Like she’s waiting on something. Or someone.

Beau lifts both hands, palms up as he steps in beside me. “Alright, alright. It’s been over a month, and babies change quickly—got it.”

Hazel holds the stare for another beat, just long enough to make her point, then smooths her features with practiced ease. “Let’s eat, everyone.”

We file out of the living room, and I follow Beau into the bustling dining room. The table’s already half full—platters of garlic bread and salad in the center, steam curling from a lasagna pan still bubbling around the edges.

Vivie’s the first to spot us. “Theo!” she squeals, darting over to coo at him like he’s a baby celebrity. Theo blinks sleepily, then offers her the lion clutched in his hand like it’s a peace offering.

Eloise gives me a once-over and a nod from her seat across the table. “You look like you’ve slept about five minutes this week.”

“Four, maybe.”

“Impressive.” Eloise grins.

Hazel waves a hand. “Alright, everyone, grab your spots.”

As I head for the seat I always take—third from the end, just beside Beau—I pause. There’s a high chair already pulled up to the table. One of those nice ones with a cushion and wood legs to match the chairs.

“I found it last week,” Hazel says, appearing beside me, her eyes already on Theo. “Isn’t it perfect? I thought it’d be nice for when you and this little guy come for dinner.” Her gaze crawls to mine, her smile a little wobbly before she looks back at Theo.

Something presses at the edge of my chest—tight, warm, and unwelcome. I shift Theo on my arm, clearing my throat. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Hazel shrugs, like it’s nothing. “I wanted to. He deserves a proper seat at the table.”

I glance down at Theo, who’s staring wide-eyed at Vivie, his hand zeroing in on a loose curl near her shoulder. She giggles and gently leans away before he can get a grip on it.

A hum rises up around us. Chairs scraping, silverware clinking, voices overlapping in that way only the Carter family can manage without missing a beat.

Dinner here is exactly what it always is.

Too many voices talking over one another, bowls passed without warning, someone laughing too loud at something half-heard, and Hazel trying to keep everyone fed before it gets cold.

And for a little while, it feels like nothing’s changed.

Like maybe I still belong.