Page 29 of One Last Encore

Now that she knew he hadn’t sabotaged Eden, she had no excuse to keep holding onto the anger that had been her emotional firewall. It wasn’t him, it was his brother. And as much as she wanted to stay mad, she couldn’t. She understood messy families, understood how loyalty could tangle you up and make you do things you wouldn’t otherwise.

She got it. She just wished she didn’t. Because now, without her anger as a shield, there was nothing left to stop her from noticing every little thing about him. The way the heat of his body radiated toward hers. The way he seemed to pull her in without even trying. Every casual brush of his hand felt like fire licking across her skin, a slow burn that made her flustered and unfocused.

And there was a tiny, traitorous part of her that didn't want it to stop.

"This place feels like an alternate universe," she muttered, struggling to keep a straight face. It had to be–how else could she explain the way her brain had completely checked out, off somewhere tropical, lounging way too close to Beck and sipping piña coladas without a care in the world?

"This place has the best blues jazz in the city," he murmured, and she felt the words like a soft caress against her skin, the heat of him pressing into her from every angle.

A shiver ran down her spine, and she nearly choked on her drink at the feeling. Fantastic. Now she was in danger of death by wine, all because this man didn’t understand personal space.

Unable to resist, she turned her head to look at him and instantly regretted it. His stormy blue eyes were locked onto her with an intensity that felt almost… predatory. Like he was circling her, watching, waiting, as if the smoky haze of the club was just camouflage for his impending attack.

Her breath caught, and she quickly looked away. She took a sip. Okay, maybe more like a gulp, hoping the wine would steady her nerves. It didn’t. Not when Beck’s gaze was still on her, tracking her every move, like a gravitational force pulling her in whether she liked it or not.

Finally, his attention shifted as the musician walked onto the stage, and she let out a quiet sigh of relief, feeling like she had narrowly escaped… something. Not danger, exactly. More like an inevitability she wasn’t ready to name.

The music kicked in, smooth and mellow, spreading through the club like a quiet hush. The sax player took the lead, his notes curling through the air like a slow exhale, with the pianist following close behind, fingers dancing over the keys. The bassist held it all together with those deep, steady notes, while the drummer kept it interesting, adding little flourishes to the rhythm.

Beck’s fingers tapped along to the beat, his eyes locked onto the musicians, completely absorbed. She watched him, watched the way he felt the music, how it seemed to pulse through him like a current. She thought he was too caught up to notice her staring until, without looking away from the stage, he leaned in slightly.

"Playing jazz is like a conversation," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, nearly blending with the music. "You listen, you process, you respond."

His head turned then, his gaze landing on her with such unwavering focus that it made her insides twist. "It’s instinctive."

She swallowed, hard.

As the tempo shifted, Beck’s voice took on a thoughtful edge. "We could add this to our piece. The 12/8 pattern," he mused. Then, without warning, he reached for her arm, his fingers wrapping gently around her forearm as he pulled it onto the table.

There were plenty of normal responses she could have had. Like nodding. Or, you know, continuing to breathe properly. Instead, she froze completely, her lungs apparently boycotting oxygen as the warmth of his fingers burned through her skin.

"Okay, so imagine this," he continued, completely unaware that she was currently experiencing a full-body crisis. "In 12/8 time, there are twelve beats in each measure, and each beat is an eighth note."

He started tapping a steady rhythm on her forearm, his fingers moving with ease. Each tap sent tiny sparks shooting up her arm, a slow, insidious warmth spreading through her veins.

"Listen to this," he said, his voice low and measured, his fingers continuing their rhythmic pattern. "One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four."

She tried. She really did. But the problem was, the only rhythm she could focus on was the one inside her chest, which was currently pounding at an embarrassingly frantic tempo.

"You feel that?"

Oh, she felt it.

She felt it in her bones, in her bloodstream, in the stupid way her pulse raced. Her breath hitched, and she nodded absently, hoping he didn’t notice that her brain had stopped functioning somewhere around beat two.

"It’s like a triplet feel," Beck continued, still tapping, still oblivious. "Each beat is subdivided into three."

She had no idea what he was saying. Literally none. He could have been explaining the meaning of life, and she wouldn’t haveprocessed a single word, because all she could focus on was the fact that his hand was still on hers, his fingers still tracing rhythm against her skin, his voice still in that low, hypnotic murmur that sent goosebumps down her spine.

And then he stopped. His hand rested lightly on her wrist, and for the first time, he seemed to really see her reaction. His eyes flickered to hers, then dropped to her lips, lingering there as though he was measuring the space between them. His face was only inches away, close enough that if she just leaned in, even slightly, their mouths would meet.

But that would be crazy. Except… he looked like he was considering it too. His head tilted forward ever so slightly, his gaze tracing the curve of her face, lingering just a beat too long. Maybe they were both crazy.

And then the crowd erupted into applause as the set ended. The spell shattered. Beck let go of her wrist, though his fingers lingered for just a second longer, as if resisting.

She exhaled sharply, gripping her glass again because, apparently, she needed something to hold onto before she did something ridiculous.Like drag him back in.

The night went on, and thanks to the manager Beck knew, the drinks kept coming. Ingrid lost track of how many glasses of wine she’d had–three? Four? Who knew.

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