Page 2 of Shattered Promise

Warm, bare skin. A broad chest that smells like soap and sleep. His hand lands on my hip, fingers pressing just firmly enough to keep me from falling. My breath catches.

“Mason.” His name leaves me on a breathy sigh, soft and reverent.

His eyes scan me, slowly. He takes in my hair, still messy from his hands. My bare legs. The lovesick smile I can feel on my mouth.

For one brief second, the world stills.

I wait for that slow grin I know by heart, the one that never quite reaches his eyes but always makes my stomach flip anyway. I expect him to say something low and teasing. Pull me back to bed. Call mesweetheart, like he did last night.

But none of that happens.

His hand drops from my hip like I burned him, and he takes a full step back.

My brows knit. I glance down at myself, half-expecting something to be off. A line of toothpaste on my dress, a mascara smear, a tear in the fabric. Something to explain the sudden distance. But there’s nothing. Just silence loud enough to reverberate in my ears.

“Abby?” His voice is low, rough from sleep. He drags a hand over his face and glances down the hall, then toward the stairs. “What are you doing here?”

The question lands wrong, bouncing around the hallway before dropping at my feet unanswered.

I blink too fast. “What?”

He rubs the back of his neck and shifts his weight, eyes darting away from mine. “Does Beau know you’re here?”

The air thins, and I shuffle backward a step. My mind whirls at the mention of my brother's name, a drop of dread pooling in my stomach.

My fingers twitch, then curl into the hem of my dress. My brows lower over my eyes as I look at him. "Beau? I don't . . ."

He won't meet my eyes. His shoulders round just slightly, and then he lets out a low sigh, almost like an apology. “Shit. I was really drunk last night.”

Everything inside me stills. For a moment, I think maybe I misheard him. Or that he’s joking. But the longer I look at him, the more he dodges my gaze. Until finally, he meets it. And for the first time ever, I wish he wasn't.

His voice softens and he closes his eyes for a second. A pained sort of wince flashes across his face before he looks at me once more. “I don’t remember much after someone started singing Queen at the fire pit. Did one of the guys . . . ?” he trails off, tilting his head toward the closed bedroom doors of his roommates. He raises his brows, content to let the leading question swell between us.

"What? No, of course not."

He exhales a low breath and drags his hand through his hair again. His gaze is open, brows crinkling with emotion. "Thank God. I'd hate to have to take a bat to their kneecaps. Or shit, unleash your brother on them."

Dread expands inside me, twining around my ribs and squeezing. "You really don't remember last night?"

He glances toward the hallway before pasting a smile on his face and avoiding my question entirely. But it's all wrong, just like this entire situation. "The annual bonfire strikes again, yeah?"

It takes everything inside of me to breathe through the sharp pain piercing the middle of my chest. Heat prickles across my skin and my eyes feel hot. Shame washes over me like an electric blanket, overheating and too tight.

You are such an idiot, I tell myself.A stupid, silly girl.

I swallow hard and try to bury every uncomfortable emotion strangling me. "Right. I, uh, actually have to go," I blurt out, walking backward.

"Of course, yeah." He blows out a breath and nods. "Abby?"

I pause, my hand gripping the bannister, but I don't turn around. "Yeah?"

"See you at Sunday dinner soon?" His voice is low, quiet.

The reminder steals my breath for a moment, and I have to swallow to clear it. "Yeah, sure.” The only place I want to be less than right here is sitting across from him at my parents' dinner table on a Sunday night.

I keep my head high as I descend the stairs, feeling those same threads of hope shrivel and flake off like something left out too long in the heat. Cracked, weightless, and no longer mine.

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