Page 122 of One Last Encore

She flopped down next to him with a sigh. "I don’t even drink coffee! I just kept hitting buttons until something vaguely coffee-colored came out."

"And then you gave it to me. Bold move."

"I was trying to do something sweet."

"And you did. Thank you, Baby." He leaned over and kissed her temple gently. "Next time, we’ll make it together. Less trauma involved."

She looked up at him, smirking. "Think you can do better?"

"I know I canbuybetter," he said, pulling on his jeans.

She made zero effort to hide her appreciation for his tattooed torso. He reached for his shirt, and she bit her lip to keep frombooingout loud. Tragic. A true loss for the visual arts.

He shrugged into his jacket. "How do you feel about Vietnamese coffee?"

"I’ve never tried it."

"Get ready, your socks are about to get blown clean off," he said with a grin.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Ingrid curled back under the blanket, grinning. Honestly, coffee had never sounded so promising.

CHAPTER 33

INGRID. MID DECEMBER, PRESENT

"You and I have always known each other, from the very beginning. Never strangers, not for a single second."

Letter dated December 15th,2 years ago from the present

"Two chocolate croissants," Ingrid announced in her most exaggerated French accent, drawing out thekwah-sahnlike she was narrating a perfume commercial. She did it specifically to annoy Sylvia, knowing full well it would get under her skin.

Sylvia groaned instantly. "Seriously? Kwah-sahn?" She mimicked the accent with even more drama, rolling her eyes so hard they nearly did a full rotation. "The girl spends a year in France and suddenly thinks she’s Coco Chanel."

Ingrid pressed her lips together, fighting a smirk. "There are perks to being a college dropout. Like mastering the pronunciation of croissant."

Sylvia didn’t even hesitate. She immediately started hummingBeauty School Dropoutfrom Grease.

Quitting Juilliard to join the Paris Opera Ballet was a risky move, but one Ingrid never regretted. It not only polished her French but also paved the way to her real dream: dancing with the New York City Ballet. Now, four years later, she was living that dream.

Ingrid snorted. "Okay, bold of you to judge, considering you went to Tennessee for a week and came back with a full-blown Southern accent that lasted a month."

"What can I say? Southern charm just rubbed off on me. I must've been a Southern belle in a past life."

"Right. Well, you did end up marrying one," she quipped, referring to Jessica, Sylvia’s partner of seven years, who she’d married last summer in the middle of a heat wave so intense the cake nearly staged a slow, sugary collapse. Ingrid had stood beside her as a bridesmaid, slowly baking in chiffon like a very supportive rotisserie chicken.

Sylvia scoffed. "Jessica’s from Kansas. She doesn’t even have an accent."

"Yeah, and thank God for that," Ingrid teased. "Otherwise, you’d be running around saying y’all unironically."

The cashier slid the croissants across the counter, and Ingrid grabbed them as they made their way to a table by the window.

Outside, people bustled down the street in a blur of scarves, hats, and the kind of frantic energy only New Yorkers had when snow was in the forecast.

"So," Ingrid said, tearing off a piece of her croissant, "how’s West Side Story? Still snapping dramatically in alleys? Turf wars, but make it jazz?"

"An absolute blast. I mean, nothing says high-stakes drama like pirouettes and switchblades. But I’m always auditioning for something new and fresh. Gotta keep the jazz hands sharp."

Ingrid grinned. Sylvia had basically cartwheeled off the Juilliard stage and straight into a Broadway spotlight, dancing in the cast ever since. Musical theater wasn’t just her job. It was her natural ecosystem: sparkly, loud, and ideally underscored by a 40-piece orchestra.

---