Page 9 of One Last Encore

His smirk widened. Fantastic. She’d only made itworse. Irritating him was the goal, notfeedinghis smug, annoyingly symmetrical face.

Honestly, this man belonged in a very specific kind of zoo. One where the only exhibit signs said"DO NOT ENGAGE: Responds positively to sarcasm."

"Nah," he said with an easy shrug, like her insult barely grazed him. "I’m never lost. I’m always right where I should be."

Then, with a flick of his eyes, he pinned her with a look so sharp and teasing it practically curled at the edges.

"You, on the other hand, are out of your depth."

Ingrid clenched her jaw, arms crossed so tightly she was one eye twitch away from launching a stiletto. She debated kicking him into the nearest speaker, but with her luck, he’d just land in a pose, arms folded, smirk intact, like he’d meant to be hurled. So instead, Ingrid folded her arms and braced herself, already anticipating whatever nonsense he’d spew next.

"Let me guess," he drawled, tilting his head as if he were analyzing her. "Community service gig? What was the crime? Public indecency?

He tapped his chin like this was a true mystery that needed solving. "Nah, you’re too prim for that. You scream honor student with repressed rage."

Ingrid raised an eyebrow. Oh, fantastic. He was one of those guys–half-flirt, half-menace, and fully deserving of a swift kick to the shin.

Then, as if struck by sudden inspiration, he snapped his fingers.

"Oh! Crashed Mommy’s Beamer, didn’t you?" he grinned. "Now you’re slumming it with us peasants to atone. How noble."

Seriously, where did this guy get off? He was actively messing with her best friend's equipment and still had the nerve to mock her like he was the victim here?

He’d taken one look at her and decided she was some spoiled little princess who only stepped foot in a dive bar for quirky rich girl reasons. And okay, fine, she was wearing heels in a venue where the floor was legally classified as a biohazard but still.

"Wow," she said flatly. "Nailed it. I’m here for charity. Starting with you. Step one: reintroduce you to soap. Step two: burn that shirt."

It was an exaggeration, unfortunately. He didn’t actually look dirty. No, the universe had gifted him with that perfectly disheveled look, like he’d just rolled out of bed and somehow still smelled expensive. Annoying.

Ingrid wrinkled her nose and shot him her most witheringyou disgust meglare, the one that normally sent grown men fleeing for their lives. He only beamed at her. Clearly, something was broken inside him.

"Wow," he mused, tilting his head. "Imagining me in the shower already? Kinda fast, don’t you think?"

Before she could throttle him, he leaned in. Too close. The kind of too close that should be illegal outside of personal relationships and CPR training. His breath was warm and teasing as it brushed against her skin. And just like that, her brain did the worst thing imaginable. It betrayed her. Against her will, she was picturing him in the shower, water streaming down his tattooed torso, droplets running over the ink, steam curling around his broad shoulders– Nope.

Her face burned. And of course, he noticed. The second her cheeks flushed, his smirk turned downright criminal.

"You might want to join me," he murmured, voice low, rich, and designed specifically to ruin lives. He leaned in just a fraction more, his lips hovering near her ear. "Just to make sure I clean behind my ears," he whispered.

Her pulse quickened, equal parts fury and something far, far more annoying. Because, sure, she was mad. Livid, even.But she was also dangerously close to getting caught up in his game instead of calling the shots herself, and that was simply unacceptable.

"Jail," she whispered, their faces just inches apart.

His brows lifted slightly, eyes flickering with something–surprise? Amusement? The crushing realization that he had finally met his match? Hard to say.

Before he could respond, she leaned in just a fraction closer, her voice dripping with disdain. "I’d rather go to a high-security prison than ever touch you, saboteur."

His mouth twitched, the beginnings of some insufferable retort forming but Ingrid struck first. She yanked the cut cable from his hand, careful not to brush his skin. The cable slipped free with a firm tug, and for a split second, he just… stared at her.

His throat bobbed with a quick swallow. His eyes flickered to hers, and for a brief moment, the usual cocky glint was absent, replaced with something almost… curious. Maybe even a little soft. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. His expression hardened slightly, his posture relaxing into that too-cool-to-care stance once more.

"The fact that you don’t know the difference between jail and prison," he mused, "really shows you wouldn’t last a minute in either, princess."

His smirk deepened, like he was genuinely enjoying himself. "They don’t have Pilates or acai bowls in prison, you know."

Ingrid gasped, scandalized. "Excuse me?"

First of all, she didn’t even do Pilates. Second of all, who didn’t enjoy a good acai bowl every now and then? That wasn’t a crime. That was self-care.

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