Page 71 of Shattered Promise

I don’t waste time stripping out of my soaking wet pajamas, wringing them out and leaving them to dry over the edge of thebathtub. I do my best to dry off with the towel, but rainwater clings to the ends of my hair, trailing cold rivulets down my spine. I blot them away slowly, the towel catching on the raised goosebumps along my skin.

My heartbeat is starting to settle. My breath too.

It surprises me, how not-terrified I feel now.

I should be trembling still. I usually would be.

But instead, I’m here—barefoot in a horse-print bathroom, wrung out and safe in the warmth of a man who literally walked through a storm to get me.

I shake my head a little, lips parting on a dry breath. God, I was so stupid. Hiding in the dark like that, curling in on myself like it would keep anything out. I could’ve just come here right away, explained where the fear comes from. Ishould’ve.

I take a last look at the underwear I’d peeled off and draped over the edge of the tub, a scrap of lace and elastic so sodden it looks like something fished from the bottom of a lake. There’s no backup in the stack Mason left me, and the thought of going commando in his clothes makes my face go hot and prickly, even as my skin is still half-chilled from the storm.

I reach for the clothes, fingers brushing the soft fabric. They smell like him—cedar and clean cotton, and something warm underneath. I tug the henley over my head first. It slips easily down my body, sleeves past my wrists. The sweatpants take some wrangling, oversized and slouchy, the drawstring long gone. I roll the waistband twice before it stays.

When I glance up at the mirror, I barely recognize the girl staring back. Hair damp and wild, pink cheeks, and nipples visible through Mason’s shirt hanging off one shoulder.

My fingers tug gently at the hem of the shirt. I hold it there. Just press the cotton between my thumb and palm and breathe him in.

Like if I stand here long enough, I might figure out what the hell is going on with my life and how I ended up here.

And how do I stay?

The hallway is quiet, just the hush of rain against the windows and the low murmur of the sound machine from Theo’s room. The living room glows in soft amber light, a single lamp casting lazy shadows across the floor.

I step past the threshold and pause.

Mason’s hunched over the too-small couch, blanket in one hand, pillow in the other.

“What are you doing?” I murmur, stopping just outside the wooden baby gate fence that surrounds the living room.

He straightens and turns toward me. “I’m gonna sleep out here tonight. You take the bed.”

“You’re six-foot-something,” I say, stepping over the fence and dodging a set of teething rings and a rogue sippy cup. “That couch is five-foot-nothing. Math isn’t on your side.”

Mason glances up. One brow lifts, unimpressed. “I’ll be fine.”

He’s changed out of his storm-soaked clothes and into a faded T-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts. His hair is still damp, but less so, and I wonder when he managed to change, or where. I’d been in his bathroom the whole time. Maybe the laundry room? Maybe he just stood dripping in the hallway, not caring if he wrecked the floor, and yanked off his shirt right there, because that’s the kind of person he is.

I picture it for a second: Mason, bare-chested in the hallway, thunder rattling the windows while he shucks off his shirt, more focused on getting dry than on the mess. The image burns through my mind, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

“Well,” I say, crossing my arms, “I’m not going to sleep in your bed if you’re out here breaking your back on a couch that’s literally too small for you to lay on.”

His gaze flicks up, meeting mine. There’s a long, silent standoff, like he’s trying to decide if I’m joking or not. I think he’s about to say something clever, but instead he just lets out a breath that could knock down a wall.

“Really, Trouble? You wanna argue with me right now?” He arches a brow, but there’s no heat in his voice. If anything, he sounds faintly amused.

“I’m not arguing, Mase.I’mbeing reasonable.” I gesture at the couch.

His mouth twitches with an almost-smile, but then it flattens into something stubborn, a line you could sharpen a knife on.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a pain in the ass?” he deadpans, fluffing a pillow like it’s the most important task.

My brows reach my hairline, and I don’t even have to fake my innocence. “Nope,” I tell him, making sure to pop the “p.”

He hums under his breath but doesn’t stop fixing the blanket.

An idea sparks, and I spin around with a mumbled, “Fine.” I hop over the baby gate and march toward his bedroom.

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