Page 84 of One Last Encore

Ingrid’s stomach clenched. Was it him? And if it was, what then? Would she invite him in? Yes. Obviously. She wasn’t a complete monster.

She pushed back from the table too fast, bumping her thigh against the edge with an undignified thud.

"You okay, Indy?" Ronan asked, eyeing her over the rim of his glass.

"Yep! All good!" she chirped, her voice way too high-pitched to be convincing. Eden’s knowing gaze lingered on her for a beat too long, one brow slightly raised.

Ignoring her friend’s silent interrogation, Ingrid slipped away from the table, weaving through the chairs as her heart pounded. She reached the door, hesitating for the briefest second before swinging it open.

Her breath hitched, but instead of Beck, it was Sadie, standing there like an overly enthusiastic Girl Scout, a bottle of red wine clutched in one hand.

Ingrid blinked.Processing… processing…

"Surprise!" Sadie announced, arms flung wide.

A flicker of disappointment sparked in Ingrid’s chest–unexpected, unwelcome, and rude as hell, considering she actually liked Sadie. She shoved it down quickly, replacing it with a grin as she pulled her friend into a hug.

"Sadie!" Ingrid beamed. "I thought you were stuck on that movie set in Maine until December?"

Sadie shrugged, her green eyes sparkling as she stepped inside. "Got a few days off, so I hopped on a bus. Figured I'd come crash Thanksgiving and bask in the glow of my dorky brother’s gorgeous wife and cool friends."

From the dining table, Eden’s voice cut through the chatter. "Is that Sadie?"

Two seconds later, she came skidding around the corner like an overexcited puppy. With an exaggerated whoop, she launched into a sprint toward Sadie. The two collided in a fit of laughter, and Eden actually scooped Sadie up, spinning her in a full circle.

Quentin, watching from the table, smirked. "Pretty sure your sister likes your wife more than she likes you," he teased Ronan.

Ronan rolled his eyes but smirked. "Oh, she does." Then, jabbing a thumb toward Quentin, he added, "At least she likes me better than you. Shedespisesyou."

Quentin huffed, reaching for his drink with a shake of his head. Sadie hated him, though no one could quite figure out why. They’d only met a handful of times since Ronan introduced his sister to the group, but from day one, Sadie had treated Quentin like a telemarketer who’d somehow gotten her personal number and kept calling during dinner. She was probably the only person on Earth who actively disliked him. Which, frankly, was kind of impressive.

Quentin was an A-list actor. People usually fawned over him. tripping over themselves to laugh at his jokes or touch his forearm like it granted luck. He claimed to hate the attention, and maybe he did, but still, watching him get completely blanked by Sadie was kind of hilarious.

Quentin and Eden had been friends forever, which meant Ingrid had basically inherited him by default.

The first time they met, she’d braced for full diva; his face was literally plastered across a Times Square billboard, mid-explosion, for his latest action movie. She expected sunglasses indoors, maybe a handler. But instead of being insufferable, he was weirdly normal. Funny. Goofy, even. Unbothered by the fact that he was basically the human version of a summer blockbuster.

Eden was famous too, just in a cooler, Grammy-nominated, "wrote that song that ruined you emotionally in a Walmart parking lot" kind of way. But she was still the same girl who used to scribble lyrics on coffee shop napkins. Somewhere along the way, she and Quentin became best friends.

The wild part was that neither of them acted like celebrities. On paper, sure–they were celebrities. In her living room? Justtwo nerds who bickered over dumplings and spilled wine on her rug.

"Hey, big bro," Sadie called, spotting Ronan. She strolled over and pulled him into a quick hug, giving him a firm pat on the back like she was checking for weaknesses.

But as she stepped away, her gaze flicked toward Quentin. The moment she saw him, her steps faltered. Quentin was lounging at the table, arms crossed like he knew he was about to cause a scene.

"You," Sadie said, her voice cool and clipped, like he was a stubborn stain she’d just discovered on her favorite shirt.

Quentin lifted an eyebrow. "Me," he echoed, voice dripping with amusement, like he’d expected this kind of reaction and, frankly, kind of enjoyed it.

Sadie’s jaw tensed. She crossed her arms, mirroring his posture. For a beat, neither of them moved. Ingrid felt like she was watching a Western standoff, if Westerns were fueled by passive aggression and unresolved drama.

"Ugh, who invited the buzzkill?" Sadie muttered, breaking the silence as she pushed past him toward the table. She grabbed an empty glass and poured herself a very healthy serving of wine. Ingrid just sat back, sipping her drink, already way too invested in whatever weird, antagonistic energy was going on between those two.

"Yeah, who invited you?" Quentin shot back without missing a beat. "No one, apparently. You just took a bus and showed up. Uninvited."

Eden sighed, sliding into her chair with the exasperation of someone used to mediating this exact argument. "Okay, children. Behave. No bickering in front of company."

Sadie huffed and took a long sip of her wine, like she was trying to drown the conversation in Merlot. Quentin smirked and kept eating like petty drama was his appetizer.

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