Page 46 of Shattered Promise

Without a word, Mason reaches across me, his bicep brushing against my breasts as he grabs the seatbelt. His knuckles graze the curve of my hip as he reaches for the buckle—slow, practiced, unhurried. The click echoes in the cab, and fora second, I swear he leaves his hand there just a moment longer than necessary.

He does it like it’s nothing, like this is a perfectly normal thing to do for a grown woman who is not your girlfriend, not your wife, not even your sister. He presses the iced espresso into my palm, condensation slick against both our hands as our fingers brush for a second too long. A bribe, a peace offering, maybe even a reward for playing along.

My throat goes dry. His eyes flick to mine for half a beat—just long enough to feel like something—and then he’s pulling away.

I clear my throat, trying not to look at the way his forearm flexes as he returns both hands to the wheel. “You know I’m capable of buckling myself in, right?”

He shrugs, mouth twisting into a grin that’s all mischief. “My car, my rules.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s pointless. A smile’s already curled at the edge of my mouth. It's a silly saying he and Beau started toting when they were sixteen and just started racing. I haven't heard it in years though.

“This coffee better be magic,” I murmur, taking a sip. Damn him, itis.

He gives me a knowing look. “Told you. Strategy.”

The truck rumbles forward, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and we head out toward the highway—toward Chestnut Hollow and whatever the hell this morning is about to turn into.

Twenty minutes later, it’s suspiciously quiet in the backseat. I tuck my legs under me and sip the coffee slowly, letting the sweetness settle on my tongue. I should probably have more food and less caffeine, but honestly, this is too good to not drink it.

Mason drives like he does everything else—with quiet confidence and very little fanfare. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between us, fingers loose. Hetaps his thumb when the song changes, something familiar and folky playing low over the speakers. We’ve barely spoken since I climbed in, but the silence doesn’t feel awkward. It feels suspended. Like something’s waiting.

“So, you’re into kidnapping now. That’s new,” I murmur over the rim of my coffee. As far as ice breakers go, it’s not my best.

He shrugs one shoulder. “You can call it that. I’m calling it a Saturday off.”

“How’d Theo sleep last night?”

He exhales and a smile blooms. “Pretty good actually. Only got up once, around four. Took an hour to get him back to sleep though.”

“So you’ve been up since four,” I guess.

He chuckles. “Yeah. I’m an early riser anyway.”

“I could help one night, if you want. Might be good for you to get a whole night’s sleep.” The offer is out too quickly. I should’ve thought it through more. It sounds like I’m inviting myself to stay at his house. “I’d crash on the couch, I mean.”

Mason watches the road. “I can take care of my son.”

My heart skips a beat and warmth flushes my cheeks. “Of course you can. I just meant it’s not a big deal if you ever want a break. And I can help.”

He must hear something in my voice, because his hand flexes on the steering wheel, and his eyes cut toward me, softer now. “I know you did, Trouble. I appreciate it.” He says it quietly, like it’s a secret just for the cab of this truck.

The air in here is thick with something I can’t name. The windows are down a few inches, and the early sun is already heating the dash, the kind of late-spring day that’s going to tip into summer before noon.

Mason’s thumb resumes its lazy tap on the center console, and I watch it like it might spell out the rest of him. Like if Icould just decipher the rhythm, I’d understand why he showed up this morning and what it means that I said yes so easily.

I peek at him over my sunglasses, the way his jaw flexes when he’s thinking, the cut of his cheekbone under his short stubble, the way his hair curls at the back if he lets it grow too long. There’s a sharpness to him still, but there’s something less guarded in the way he drives now, a little more comfort in the set of his shoulders.

The silence stretches again, but it’s heavier now. Heavier and warmer. I sip my drink and trace the condensation down the side of the cup. My left hand is resting near the console. Not on it. Not touching him. But close.

Too close.

The next song picks up—some acoustic cover of a pop song I used to love—and I hum along without realizing. Mason glances over again, just for a second, but there’s something different in his expression now. His mouth softens at the corner.

“You still do that,” he says. “Hum along to the harmony, not the melody.”

I blink. “You remember that?”

His shrug is one-shouldered, but the answer is in his eyes. Of course he does.

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