Page 50 of Shattered Promise

Theo babbles, reaching for a bit of the flatbread. I break off a safe-sized piece and offer it to him, he gums it with single-minded focus, gaze fixed on Mason like he’s reporting back on every flavor.

He babbles, and I swear it almost sounds like he’s saying “more.”

“He’s gonna be a food critic,” I say, dabbing his chin again. “Or a competitive eater.”

Mason laughs, a real one, deep and surprised. “God, I hope so. That’d be so fun.”

We finish up with our food and wander toward the game booths, Mason pushing the stroller with one hand, the other holding what’s left of the pancake skewers.

There’s a ring toss, a row of beanbag targets, inflatable mallets for kids to whack oversized bells. Mason slows, scanning the setup like he’s looking for something specific. His expression slips into that familiar half-frown, half-smirk—the one he used to wear at high school baseball games when he was trying to decide if a warm-up drill was worth it.

“Calculating the odds of winning that big dinosaur?” I ask, pointing to the giant green stuffed animal hanging from a hook.

“Maybe. You feeling lucky today, Trouble?” He smirks, nodding toward the ring toss.

“Areyou?" I volley, arching a brow.

“Always.”

Mason leads us to the ring toss booth first, a colorful array of bottles lined up on a weathered wooden table. The vibrant hues of red and blue catch my eye, glinting in the afternoon sun. An attendant with a bright yellow shirt and a friendly smile greets us as we approach. “Welcome! It’s just two bucks a try,” he says, gesturing to the neatly stacked rings beside him.

Mason hands over some cash while I scan the setup. Colorful paper streamers wrap around the poles of the booth and flutter in the breeze, casting playful shadows over the glass bottles. The attendant hands Mason a fistful of rings and winks at Theo, who reaches out with an eager squawk.

“Want to take the first shot?” Mason asks, offering me the stack.

I shake my head. “You’re the one who played competitive ball,” I say, but I take a ring anyway just to feel the weight of it in my palm. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He lines up, eyes narrowing with mock seriousness. “Care to make it interesting?”

“Loser buys kettle corn?” I suggest, waggling my brows at him.

“You’re on,” Mason says, voice low and easy. He cocks his wrist, veins popping on his forearms, and lets the first ring fly. It sails in a perfect arc—then clinks off a bottle and bounces wide.

“Wow,” I deadpan, grinning. “All those years of little league really paid off.”

He shakes his head, lips pressed tight against a smile. “Practice round.”

Theo lets out a high-pitched noise that sounds suspiciously like a giggle. I look down and he’s staring at the bottles with his whole body, eyes wide and bright, hands fisted in the stroller’s tray.

I can’t help it—I laugh, then toss a ring underhanded. It bounces once, twice, then lands squarely on a bottle neck. The attendant claps, delighted. “Winner!”

Mason side-eyes me. “Beginner’s luck.”

“Or maybe,” I say, “I’m just good.”

We volley rings back and forth. Mason misses his next shot by a hair, then sinks two in a row, effortless and showy, like he’s been hustling me from the jump. I get one more, then clatter two off the table. Theo squeals approval regardless, waving his fists in the air like he’s conducting the entire operation. The attendant hands over a neon plastic frog, which is easily the smallest prize on the board, but Theo clutches it like it’s his prized possession right before he drops it onto the ground.

“Looks like we’re tied,” Mason says, voice half a challenge, half a dare as he bends to pick up the frog. He tosses it in the stroller’s cup holder.

I arch a brow. “Tiebreaker?”

He nods toward the last ring in our stack. “Go for it.”

I weigh the ring in my hand, roll it over my palm like I’m testing its loyalty. Mason’s eyes are fixed on me, and I can feel the focus from him—a little too intense for a booth game, but that’s kind of the point. I wind up, toss, and miss by a fraction.The ring skims the neck of a blue bottle and clatters to the canvas below.

Mason grins, all teeth and trouble. “Guess you’re buying the kettle corn.”

“Maybe I let you win,” I counter, but the words come out softer than I mean.

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