Page 42 of Shattered Promise

The kitchen is bright, morning sun slanting across the tile and throwing weird, angular shadows over the counter. The sandwich is waiting on a plate on the island, wrapped in wax paper, just the way her mom used to make them for us when we were younger. I nudge it toward her, then finish the last dredges of my coffee.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her gaze sliding to the left as a small smile curves up one side of her mouth. “Maybe I’ll save it for lunch.”

I grunt something out and spin around to wash out my mug. The water runs hotter than I expected. I scrub the mug with more force than necessary, focusing on the feel of ceramic and the scrape of the sponge as if I can erase the image of the way her mouth softened around the word “lunch.” I rinse, set the mug upside-down to dry, and reach for the towel to wipe my hands, all the while hyper-aware of her behind me, humming to herself as she bounces Theo on her hip.

“I thought I should go over his schedule. Give you a quick tour of the house.”

She perks up at that, eyes brightening with something like gratitude. “Yeah, sure. I mean, I don’t want to screw anything up.”

“You won’t,” I say instantly. And I mean it. I scrub a hand across the back of my neck. “So, he, uh, still naps twice a day, give or take. First one’s usually around ten, second one after lunch. But if the first one’s a bust, he tends to crash hard later.”

She nods, adjusting Theo against her side like she’s done it a thousand times. “Got it.”

“He eats pretty well, but half of what he eats ends up on the floor. He’s really into sweet potatoes and bananas right now, but you can give him any of the baby food or packets. There’s formula and bottles in the cabinet next to the fridge. He likes those yogurt melts too—basically anything you put in front of him. He’s not picky.”

She laughs, a low ripple. “I can relate.”

I start to say something else, but the words tangle up behind my teeth. Instead, I walk toward the baby-proofed living room. “Here’s where we spend a lot of time. The TV’s mostly just for noise, but there’s books, toys, play mats. And he can cruise around pretty easily since it’s all gated.”

She steps into the living room, bare feet sinking into the plush area rug. “I like it. It’s like his own personal playhouse.” She sets Theo down, and he immediately makes a beeline for the basket of blocks, grunting in triumph as he pulls himself to a sitting position and tips the basket over. Blocks tumble to the floor.

I can’t help but smile, even though my jaw’s tight. “If you let him, he’ll shove everything in his mouth.”

She sinks cross-legged onto the rug, hair swinging forward as she leans in to help scoop up the blocks. “Noted.”

I stop in the doorway, arms folded. “Anything in the house or on the property? It’s yours. If you need something, just take it. Only rule is: stay clear of the back field.”

She lifts one eyebrow, amused. “Snakes?”

“Snakes,” I confirm, deadpan.

A smirk plays at the edge of her mouth. “Still haunted by the clover-and-daisy death trap?”

“Not haunted,” I say, catching her gaze. “Just experienced. I know what’s out there.”

“Right. Death and danger,” she teases.

She grins at me, the real, open kind, and for a second I have to look away. It’s too much. Or maybe it’s not enough, and that’s the problem.

I watch her for a minute, sprawled on the floor with Theo, building a crooked stack of blocks as he knocks them over. He looks up at her, like he’s waiting for her to laugh, and she always does—every single time. It’s small, but it’s real. It’s more than I remember from the years she spent moving through the world with a wall up, like she was waiting for someone to call her out for being too much, or not enough, or just not quite what everyone wanted from her.

I should go get started on my actual work, but instead I lean against the archway and watch—longer than is necessary, longer than is polite. It’s the smile, I think. Or the way she seems lighter around my kid. Or maybe it’s the way she lets him crawl into her lap, like there’s no part of her that hesitates to make room for someone small and messy and needy. In that specific talent, she is absolutely a Carter.

Eventually, she looks up and catches me staring. “I thought you had to work?”

I clear my throat, caught. “I do. I just—” I jerk my chin at the blocks between them. “That’s a very advanced tower he’s got there. Could be a record.”

She laughs, but I see the flush crawl up her throat, and I regret saying anything that made it weird. For years, I’ve wanted to be this close to her. And for years, I’ve told myself I shouldn’t—I can’t.

But all these years later, and she’s sitting in my living room like she belongs here. And it’s fucking with me.

“Let me know if you need anything,” I say, more gruff than I intend. I peel myself away from them and head out to the barn.

17

MASON

The barn is cooler inside,the wide bay doors pulling in a light breeze that stirs the scent of grease and old wood. The Mustang waits, hood up, engine halfway dismantled. Everything is lined up in neat rows on the workbench, just how I left it.

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