Page 15 of One Last Encore

Was this just how ballet worked? Because to him, what he’d just witnessed was nothing short of insane. While he had seen ballets before, her performance seemed flawless, at least to his untrained eyes.

The ballerina, Ingrid, apparently, turned away from the judges, chin high, posture unwavering. Beck’s eyes followed her as she walked toward the door.

Pink leotard, soft fluttering skirt, tights that made her legs look like they stretched on forever. There was somethingdevastatingly graceful about her, even off the stage. Like she was made of something finer, something polished, like she belonged in a different world entirely–one of art galleries and champagne toasts and other things Beck definitely didn’t belong in.

But as she got closer, recognition hit Beck like a punch to the chest.

Because it washer. The prim, buttoned-up girl from that dive bar two months ago. Same sharp eyes that had looked at him like he was some kind of public health warning. Same clipped, no-nonsense voice that made it clear she had no time for his shit. The same girl who’d gotten so far under his skin that he’d actually gone to a few more of Eden’s shows, half-hoping she might be there.

And now, here she was–floating across the floor like a goddamn dream, utterly unaware that Beck had been standing there, unknowingly waiting for her all along.

Well. This was about to get interesting.

Beck forced his expression into something casual, fighting against the way his pulse suddenly picked up. He wasn’t about to let her see that she’d thrown him off balance.

Then she saw him. She stopped so abruptly he swore he could hear the record scratch moment in her head. Her eyes, deep, rich light brown, widened, her full lips parting just slightly in pure, unguarded shock. For a fraction of a second, she looked almost… ethereal. Gone was the scowling, sharp-tongued girl from the dive bar. In her place stood someone softer, more vulnerable, so breathtaking it made his chest clench.

Then her expression snapped back into place.

Her brows furrowed. The softness vanished. And the glare, the one he had become so fond of, made its grand return. If looks could kill, he’d be obliterated.

She didn’t seem to realize how little her glare actually intimidated him. Because when she got mad? She looked like aferocious kitten, tiny with imaginary hackles raised and claws at the ready. All he wanted to do was poke at her just to watch her puff up.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. Her eyes narrowed. God, this was fun.

As she moved toward the exit, his gaze followed entirely against his will, but what was he supposed to do? Not look? Impossible.

Up close, she was even more stunning. Her delicate nose, full lips, and finely arched eyebrows framed a heart-shaped face, giving her the kind of elegance that belonged in paintings. But what really got him wasn’t just her looks. It was the contradiction: soft, graceful elegance paired with sharp edges and fire.

That bite. That spark. It fascinated him. Entertained him. Itmovedhim.

He was always chasing that feeling–through late nights, bad decisions, and pounding out rhythms until his hands went numb. Most people bored him. She didn’t.

She struck him like a jolt of electricity, adrenaline humming in his veins. And for the first time in a long time, he felt awake. Tuned in, like something had finally cut through the noise.Ingrid, his mind whispered.

"Hi, Kitten. Did you miss me?" Beck delivered the line with his best smirk, leaning casually against the doorframe like he hadn't just spent the last minute trying to figure out how to look casual.

Ingrid froze mid-step, her eyes snapping up to his with that sharp, instant annoyance he was quickly becoming addicted to. It was satisfying. Like flicking a light switch and watching the room ignite.

Her slender shoulder bumped into his chest as she tried to shove past him –unsuccessfully. He didn’t move an inch. Ifanything, he enjoyed the moment far too much. She smelled like something expensive and delicate, like vanilla and the barest hint of something floral.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, as if just existing near him was a personal offense. Which, honestly? Fair. He was kind of making it a mission to be one.

"What’s your game here, you weirdo?" she snapped, her eyes flashing. "Here to sabotage my audition? I’ll just add it to your growing list of criminal charges."

Beck almost laughed. He really, really shouldn’t enjoy this as much as he did.

"If you’re stalking me, I won’t hesitate to report your ass to the NYPD,Beck Gershaw."

Hearing his name on her tongue shouldn’t have made his blood heat the way it did. It definitely shouldn’t have made him want to hear it again, maybe gasped, preferably in a much different context.

Eden must've dropped his name, and hell, he owed her more than a high five next time he saw her. Maybe a full-on thank-you card. Because hearing Ingrid say it in that sweet, angry voice? That was a goddamn drug.

When he didn’t answer, she shot him a glare and brushed past, chin tilted high with that same ballerina-perfect grace she had onstage. Except now, she wasn’t ethereal.

Now she looked like she was seriously considering whether stabbing him would be worth the paperwork. And Jesus, if that wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

He lingered, watching her stomp off, all righteous fury and perfect posture.

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