Page 99 of Shattered Promise

“I’m back,” she says, and she’s laughing but her eyes are shining in a way that makes my chest rattle. “Did you get taller while I was gone?” She tilts her head back, gaze roaming over my face like she’s trying to catalogue any differences.

“It’s probably the hat,” I murmur, dragging my gaze to the too-big cowboy hat tipped back on her head.

“Oh, this.” She laughs, plucking it from her head, pushing onto her tiptoes, and dropping it on my head all in one smooth movement. “I got this for you.”

I blink, momentarily disoriented by the way the brim cuts my vision. “You got me a cowboy hat.”

She nods, so pleased with herself she’s practically vibrating. “You literally live on an old ranch. Therefore you need a cowboy hat. I don’t make the rules.”

I stare at her, deadpan, and she cracks up—head thrown back, eyes crinkled, the sound bubbling through her whole body. I’m powerless against it. The hat sits crooked on my head, and Theo slaps it with a hand, giggling at the way it wobbles.

“You hate it, don’t you?” She’s still laughing when she presses her palm to my chest, right over my heart, as if she’s checking to make sure it’s still beating.

“If you like it, I like it.” I adjust the brim, trying to fight the instinct to take it off and hand it back to her.

She chuffs a laugh and picks up the tote bag, placing it back in the crook of her elbow. “I took a break about two hundred miles west of here at this little strip of stores. I needed tostretch my legs and get gas. I ended up chatting with this nice woman, Maribelle, and she makes all this incredible stuff. I even indulged and got these.” She lifts her foot, twisting her ankle to show me a pair of white cowboy boots.

They’re soft white with pink roses embroidered up the side, little green leaves curling around the stems.

I whistle low, brows raised and give her an appreciative once-over. Her grin grows wider.

“I know, right? They kind of remind me of these boots Nana Jo used to have, but I think my cousin has them now. I can’t decide if I can even pull off cowboy boots, but I got them anyway.” She does a little skip in place, and the boots flash again, blinding and perfect. “Theo, what do you think? Should Daddy get matching ones?”

Theo blows a raspberry, which Abby interprets as a resounding yes. “Done,” she says with a laugh.

She looks up at me, all sunlight and pride and mischief, and I want to bottle the moment. The way she stands in the grass, hair wild, arms full, cheeks flushed from the walk. The way she fits here like she was always meant to.

“Honestly,” I say, tipping the hat back with one finger, “you could wear boots, or flip-flops, or nothing at all, and you’d still be the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

She blinks at me, surprised, and then her smile softens to something private. “Are you tryin’ to make a move, Mase?”

I huff and glance to the right, warmth prickling the back of my neck. “If you have to ask, then I’m not doing it right.”

Theo decides he’s had enough of me and twists toward Abby, arms out, penguin dropped to the grass. She takes him—of course she does, like it’s the most natural thing in the world—and he burrows into her, nose in the crook of her neck.

“I missed you too, buddy,” she murmurs, dropping a kiss to the top of his head.

I take her tote bag, swipe his penguin, and grab her hand. I lace our fingers together and gently tug her toward the house. She lets me lead her, new boots crunching on the gravel, Theo perched on her hip like a barnacle. The three of us together, casting a long, tangled shadow.

The hat bobs on my head, shading the world with a weird sepia glow, but I keep it on because she’s watching me like I’m the best thing she’s ever seen, too.

“Come on,” I say, “I made cinnamon rolls. From a can, but they’re still cinnamon rolls.”

She gasps, legitimately delighted. “Did you save me the center piece?”

I squeeze her hand. “I saved you the whole pan.”

“You’re too good to me, Mase,” she murmurs, tilting her head into my bicep.

“I’m just getting started, baby.”

38

MASON

The fire crackles low,tucked inside the ring of stones I dragged from the creek bed yesterday afternoon. I told myself it was for Theo someday—roasting marshmallows and sharing stories under the stars. But that was only half the truth.

The real reason is sitting beside me now, wrapped in a knit blanket that used to live on the back of my couch. Her legs are stretched out, toes bare, ankles resting just shy of my thigh. She nudges me gently, like she’s trying to warm herself without saying it out loud.

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