Page 12 of Shattered Promise

Me: He definitely tried, but Eloise was there. She kept him in check.

Three dots appear immediately, bouncing across the screen.

Mason: She’s the only one who can. It’s kind of terrifying and definitely impressive.

Me: She takes Cora's desserts very seriously.

Mason: As she should. Your sister’s talented. Maybe next time I’ll risk showing up just for dessert.

I stare at that last text for a beat too long. Is he . . .flirtingwith me? I shake my head, flinging that ridiculous thought free. He’s just being friendly.

Me: Sure, if you want to face my mother’s wrath by skipping dinner and going straight for dessert.

Mason: She can’t be mad at me when I’ve got Theo with me. He’s like my good-luck charm.

I hesitate, then type the words before I can overthink them.

Me: Theo might be your good-luck charm, but I think it’s mostly the dimples.

Mason: Mine or his?

Me: Both. Obviously.

The dots reappear. Then vanish.

I set my phone down and sink deeper into the couch, letting the hope bloom quietly and uninvited. Like something small and stubborn cracking through concrete.

Shit.

5

ABBY

I pushthe door open and step into the low light and hazy noise of The Blue Door. The air is warm and a little sticky, scented with cheap beer and something sweet—cherry syrup, maybe, from those house sodas they stock from that local company.

A slow guitar riff hums from the old speaker system. Not live—just a looped track bleeding out the last few notes of someone’s earlier set.

I pause just past the threshold, scanning instinctively for Henry. He’s usually parked on a stool near the door, arms crossed, one brow raised like he’s seen every version of every person that’s ever walked in.

But his spot’s empty. It’s not unusual for him to step away for a smoke or take five in the alley behind the bar. But somehow, the lack of that gruff nod as I walk in leaves the whole place feeling a little off-kilter.

That’s the first thing I notice. The second is how strange it feels to be here without a guitar in my hand.

I haven’t stepped foot inside The Blue Door in weeks. Not since before that impromptu weekend trip to Avalon Falls. Andnow, this place—once the closest thing I had to salvation on the West Coast—feels unfamiliar. Like it doesn’t quite fit anymore.

Maybe that’s just the exhaustion talking.

I should’ve gone home. Washed off the makeup, tossed my heels into the back of the closet, and collapsed under the weight of a day I’ve been preparing for since January.

But something about the buzz under my skin wouldn’t let me. Not adrenaline. Not quite joy. Just that wired, hollow feeling that follows a high-stakes event. The kind where you smile until your cheeks ache, talk to so many people your own voice starts sounding fake. Then drive home in silence, wondering if anyone actually saw you.

Tonight, I just needed somewhere to land. Somewhere that wasn’t my empty apartment. Somewhere that didn’t echo with my boss’s too-loud praise or the leftover catering stacked beside a curated floral arch that cost more than my rent. Somewhere I can escape the constant buzz of texts and emails that haven’t stopped in hours.

I’m one poorly punctuated work message away from tossing my phone into the Pacific.

The gala had gone off without a hitch, thank God. I spent months planning it. Five hundred donors, two string quartets, a six-tier floral arch, and three rounds of champagne flutes delivered exactly on cue. No one tripped, cried, or spilled. Not even the overly ambitious intern who wore four-inch heels and a fear of authority. Every speech landed. Every guest left happy.

It was perfect. And I’m so tired I can barely breathe.

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