Page 57 of One Last Encore

She swallowed, tilting her chin up. He was beautiful.Offensivelybeautiful. It was honestly kind of rude. His lashes were dark and long as they rested against his cheek, his lips parted slightly in sleep. He looked like he belonged ina Renaissance painting–except hotter, definitely less holy, and close enough to make her forget her full government name.

Then reality drop-kicked her in the stomach when she remembered the taxi. The heated argument with the driver. The reckless, possessive anger in Beck’s voice. The sharp, dangerous edge of it. All because another man had looked at her.

She hadn’t known what to do with that version of him, the sharp, volatile Beck that had flared up so suddenly. The knot in her stomach tightened as a different thought crept in: I shouldn’t still be here.

She knew his type. Beck didn’t do lingering. He didn’t do slow mornings, whispered conversations, waking up still holding someone. He had a reputation, and it wasn’t for monogamy or emotional intimacy.

He wasn’t going to want her here. And she definitely wasn’t going to wait around for the awkward conversation that would inevitably lead to her leaving anyway.

She turned toward his nightstand, and then she saw the clock. It was 10:30 AM. Her stomach dropped. Her schedule. Her routine. Sundays were for the studio. Always. No exceptions. 8:00 AM sharp, without fail.

Holidays?Studio.

Sick?Studio.

Tornado warning?Studio.

She hadn’t missed a Sunday in years.Years. And now, she was in Beck’s bed, hours late, wrapped in his warmth, smelling like him, with her perfect streak shattered for the first time in forever.

And for what? Because she suddenly wanted a relationship? With the guy nicknamedDrum Daddy? She was clearly losing it.

Panic surged through her, cold and creeping, wrapping around her ribs like a vice. This was how it started. The slow, insidious slip from the structure that kept her steady.

In the past, she would have clawed for control in the only ways she knew how, restricting food, or, in her darkest moments, self-harm. But therapy had helped her leave those patterns behind. It had given her rules, structure, safety. Dance had become a vital part of that. The repetition, the discipline, the quiet control of her body in motion. It offered a kind of order that didn’t hurt. A way to reclaim herself without disappearing.

And then there was Beck. Beck was chaos incarnate. He’d wrecked her schedule without even trying. She had to fix this. Had to get back on track.

Holding her breath, she peeled his arm off her inch by inch.Don’t wake up.

A low, raspy noise slipped from Beck as he burrowed closer. She froze.

If he woke up now, she would die on the spot. Full-on, spontaneous combustion, reduced to a pile of ash in his bed. But Beck stayed blissfully unconscious, mouth slightly open, breathing evenly, completely unaware that she was about to execute the world’s most awkward escape.

Releasing a quiet sigh of relief, she carefully lowered his arm and slipped out of bed, the mattress barely shifting under her.

She snatched her dress off the desk and grabbed her heels from the floor, only to realize a serious problem.

She wasn’t wearing any pants.

Her gaze dropped the tight vinyl dress she was holding. There was no way she was squeezing herself back into that without a team of professionals and a tub of butter.

Her eyes darted wildly around the room until they landed on a dresser in the corner. Jackpot.

She yanked open the first drawer and was momentarily shocked to discover that Beck actually owned more than the two shirts. The second drawer had a pair of basketball shorts. Without hesitation, she grabbed them.

Clutching her stolen shorts and halloween outfit, she crept toward the bedroom door like a burglar. She gripped the doorknob, pulse pounding.

Carefully, she eased the door shut behind her and stepped into the living room, shoes dangling from one hand as she awkwardly attempted to wiggle into the stolen basketball shorts.

"A pantless robbery. I mean, if I’m getting robbed, I guess having the perpetrator show a little leg softens the blow."

Ingrid nearly jumped out of her skin. She whipped around, clutching her dress and heels like makeshift weapons, only to find a guy sprawled across the couch, watching her with a grin.

Shaggy blonde hair, a well-worn hoodie, the kind of energy that screamed I wake up at noon and don’t believe in alarm clocks. The bassist in Beck’s band.

"Finn, right?" she asked cautiously.

"Oh, it’s drummer girl." His smirk widened. "Standing pantless in my living room."

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