Page 85 of One Last Encore

Ingrid jumped in before round two of the Sadie-Quentin Show could kick off. "So, Sadie, how’s the movie going?" she asked, genuinely curious. They kept in touch, but she hadn’t heard the latest update from the front lines of low-budget cinema. Sadie worked as a special effects makeup artist, which meant she always had wild stories about fake blood, prosthetics, and actors who had no idea how to sit still.

Sadie leaned back, wine in hand, already looking like she had stories. "It’s been a beautiful disaster," she said with a grin. "Shoestring budget, twelve-hour days, one working bathroom but honestly? Some of my best work."

She perked up. "Last week the fake blood I had to apply basically turned into a Slip ’N Slide across set. The splatter? A Jackson Pollock fever dream."

Ingrid laughed. "High art."

"Nothing says prestige like being covered in corn syrup. But hey, the next job is a big-budget project in Montana. Real crew, real funding. I might finally work on a set where the fog machine doesn’t double as a space heater."

"What’s it about?" Eden asked, leaning forward as she took a sip of her wine.

Sadie’s grin widened. "Western thriller with supernatural elements."

Quentin’s reaction was immediate. He choked. Violently. Wine went down the wrong pipe, and he sputtered, slamming his glass onto the table like he was moments from meeting his maker.

Ronan, leaned over and thumped him on the back.

Quentin’s face turned a lovely shade of tomato as he coughed, wheezing out, "I’m the lead in that movie. ‘Blood on the Prairie’, right?"

Sadie froze mid-sip, her wine glass hovering in midair like someone had just spoiled the ending of her favorite show. Slowly, she lowered it.

"Please tell me you’re kidding," she muttered, her face a perfect blend of disbelief and barely-contained horror.

"I don’t joke about things this tragic," Quentin muttered.

Eden clapped her hands together like a kindergarten teacher about to settle a dispute over crayons. "Looks like you two need a truce!"

Quentin just shrugged, while Sadie rolled her eyes so hard they nearly left orbit.

Another thump echoed from Beck’s apartment next door. This one was so aggressive it rattled the picture frames. She clenched her jaw. She looked at Eden, who just shrugged.

"That’s it," Ingrid announced, shoving back her chair and standing up so abruptly that her wine nearly sloshed out of the glass. "I can’t take it anymore. I’m inviting him over."

Eden raised her hands in mock surrender. "Don’t let me stop you."

Ingrid marched to the front door, yanked it open like she was about to serve an eviction notice, and stormed down the hall. She stopped in front of Beck’s door and knocked.

The door creaked open, and there he was, looking inconveniently good for someone who had been causing enough noise to make her question the integrity of her ceiling. The soft hallway light hit just right, emphasizing the unfair angles of his jaw and the perfectly tousled mess of his hair.

Barefoot, in low-slung jeans and a plain white T-shirt, he radiated that just rolled out of bed and directly onto a magazine cover energy. Did the man even own a single ugly sweater? Or was he genetically incapable of looking anything less than insufferably handsome?

"Howdy, neighbor. Come for a cup of sugar?" Beck greeted, his lips curving into a lazy smirk, eyes twinkling.

"What’s with all the thudding? Are you breakdancing or just rearranging your furniture very aggressively?" she shot back, arms crossed, already regretting every decision that led to this moment.

He grinned, completely unbothered. "How did you know? I’ve been this close to nailing the headspin."

She exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You want to join us?" The words felt physically painful to say. "Eden asked me to invite you." She tacked on the last part quickly, shamelessly lying through her teeth.

Beck arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Did she now?" His tone was teasing. "Well, I definitely wouldn’t want to disappoint Eden."

Ingrid resisted the urge to chuck her shoe at him and instead turned on her heel, marching back to her apartment. She left the door open just enough to be technically polite.

"What the heck? Where did you come from?" Quentin blurted out, before pulling Beck into a classic bro hug–half back slap, half I-miss-you-but-must-be-manly-about-it.

"Eden’s letting me stay in her apartment while I teach at Juilliard," Beck explained, sliding into a chair. A thin gold chain peeked out from under the collar of his shirt, catching the light.

"And that just happens to be the apartment next to Ingrid’s?" Quentin asked, his tone thick with suspicion.

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