Page 21 of One Last Encore

She needed to break it, now, before she did something humiliating.

"So, are you a rockstar or a jazz musician?" she blurted, the words tumbling from her mouth..Oh, perfect. Real smooth, Ingrid.

Beck’s lips curled, as if he knew exactly how flustered she was. "I’m whatever I need to be," he replied. Then, just when she thought he might let it go, his smirk softened into something almost nostalgic. "But jazz is my real passion."

Ingrid blinked. That was…unexpected.

"I used to sneak into this jazz club as a kid in Philadelphia," he continued. "I’d hide behind the barstools and just listen.There was something about the music. It was so alive, so unpredictable. My hands would try to mimic the drum beats."

For once, Beck wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing. He was lost in the memory, his face lit with genuine affection.

"Eventually, I got caught by a patron after I sneezed on her foot while she was sitting at the bar."

Ingrid’s lips parted. "You what?"

"Full force. No warning. Just–achoo, right on her open-toed heels." His expression remained completely serious, though amusement flickered in his eyes. "I got kicked out of that club at least ten times before the owner finally took pity on me and let me stay in exchange for polishing silverware."

"You sneezed on a woman’s foot?" she repeated.

"It was allergy season," he said, as if that excused everything.

She shook her head, biting back a grin. "That might be the least cool origin story I’ve ever heard."

"Wow. And here I was, baring my soul."

Ingrid rolled her eyes, but she couldn't deny the story had caught her off guard, in a good way. Because, in some strange way, she understood what he meant.

"I used to dance in front of my jewelry box," she admitted, her voice quieter now. "Pretending I was a ballerina like the one inside. Spinning, twirling, trying to match the way she moved. I’d wind it up over and over just to keep the music playing, terrified that if it stopped, the magic would disappear."

Beck’s gaze sharpened with curiosity. "So that’s where it all started for you?"

"Yes," she nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "When I saw The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center. I must have been four, maybe five. I remember sitting in one of those massive red velvet seats, my feet not even reaching the edge, and just... watching. The chandeliers, the golden balconies, the size of the stage.It was like stepping into another world. And then the music started."

She paused, the memory flickering to life in her mind.

"Tchaikovsky’s score swelled through the theater, and suddenly there were snowflakes twirling, soldiers marching, sugar plum fairies gliding across the stage. It was like someone had cracked open a dream and poured it right in front of me. I didn’t just want to dance, I needed to. Right then and there, I decided that one day, I would be up on that stage, making people feel the same kind of wonder I felt that night."

Beck was quiet for a moment, watching her closely.

"And you never let go of that dream," he murmured, more a statement than a question.

"Never. It’s been my life ever since."

Beck tilted his head slightly, considering this. "Guess we’re not so different after all."

"Maybe not," she admitted. Then, before the moment could stretch into something too soft, too dangerous, she added, "Did your parents not care that you were sneaking into adult clubs as a kid?"

"My mom was just happy I was out of her hair. And my dad wasn’t in my life," he said simply, his voice carrying the kind of practiced nonchalance that made it obvious there was more beneath the surface. The words were too easy, too weightless for something that heavy.

Ingrid immediately regretted asking. "I’m sorry," she said, and she meant it. Because that really sucked.

Beck shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips, one of those distant, faraway ones that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "It is what it is. I guess uninvolved parents gave me the freedom to explore what I loved. Drumming became my escape. A way to make noise when no one was listening."

Something in the way he said it made her chest tighten. It was too familiar.

Her parents had never been absent, not exactly. They’d been there physically. Provided for her, clothed her, paid for all the lessons and training that shaped her into who she was. But love? Presence? A sense of being truly seen? That had always been fleeting. Her mother, once an overbearing control freak, had thrown herself into an endless cycle of self-discovery, trying on new passions like they were clothes at the Chanel store. Her father, though kinder, had always been preoccupied with work, his new marriage, and the life he built without her.

She’d never been neglected. Just… peripheral.

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