Page 20 of One Last Encore

So, in an act of bold, decisive self-preservation, she did the only logical thing. She kicked him. Well, she tried to.

Her brilliant escape plan backfired instantly. The moment she jerked her leg, his grip tightened, turning into an unyielding vise around her ankle.

Beck’s smirk deepened, something darker flashing behind his amusement. He leaned in ever so slightly, his grip still firm, and murmured, "Careful, kitten."

His voice was low. Rough. The kind of tone that set off alarm bells, but in a way that made her more flustered rather than less. His breath ghosted over her skin. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Beck gently placed her foot back on the floor, but his fingers lingered just a fraction too long. Long enough to remind her that he could have let go earlier but chose not to.

She yanked her leg back like he’d burned her.

Beck just grinned, all lazy satisfaction. Ingrid clenched her jaw so hard it could’ve cracked a walnut. Yes. She definitely hadto be careful around him. This man was dangerous in more ways than one.

For someone she wanted to strangle daily, Beck was annoyingly good at keeping up with her. Ingrid wasn’t sure if that made her want to respect him or punch him harder. His drum arrangements were brilliant. Honestly, if he could just be terrible at something, just one thing, it would make her life so much easier. But no. Beck had to be equally talented and unbearable.

It was like the universe had handed him all the good genes, a drum kit, and an unlimited supply of cocky swagger, then told him to go forth and be a problem.

Beck, of course, seemed to get some twisted kick out of pushing her buttons. Like an overgrown toddler with access to nuclear launch codes, he was constantly teasing her, his smug smirk permanently glued to his face like a sticker you can't peel off no matter how hard you try.

The only time he wasn’t insufferable? When she danced.

His usual smirk disappeared, replaced by something that almost looked like genuine awe. His eyes tracked every movement she made, and his compliments were shockingly sincere. As in, "Wow, Ingrid, that was amazing!"–and she hated it. Because it was completely disarming. And usually left her speechless. Which shereallyhated.

And now, here he was again, watching her like she was the only thing on the planet worth paying attention to.

"We could pick up the tempo here," Beck suggested, punctuating his words with a staccato beat on his portableelectric drum set. He had dragged that thing into the dance studio like it was his emotional support instrument.

Ingrid tried so hard not to be impressed by how easily he slipped between styles. Gone was the punk rock drummer from Battle of the Bands, and in his place? A smooth, bluesy jazz rhythm that oozed through his fingers with the ease of a man who had clearly never been bad at anything in his life.

"Yeah, that could work," she muttered, her voice nearly drowned out by the music.

She executed a quick bourrée to match the rhythm, her feet flickering across the floor in quick, shimmering movements. Beck kept playing, utterly absorbed, eyes closed as his fingers ghosted over the drum pad like he was born to do this.

And then, she made the biggest mistake of her life, she looked at him.Huge mistake.

His biceps flexed with every strike. His forearms moved with an almost hypnotic rhythm. The rotation of his fingers around the drumsticks was so fluid, so... unnecessary, and for some inexplicable reason, it caught her attention in a way that was absolutely not okay.

Then, her brain made the worst possible leap. Those fingers. Those hands. She immediately envisioned them trailing up her legs, over her waist, gripping– Her ankle wobbled. Her step stuttered. And just like that, the elegant, carefully executed bourrée turned into an awkward plop back onto flat feet.

Beck’s playing halted abruptly. Silence stretched between them like a very awkward pause at a family dinner. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked at her, his lips twitching like he was trying not to laugh.

"Something on your mind, kitten?"

Her entire soul packed its bags and fled.

This was exactly why she didn’t date. She had a life plan. A plan that was carefully structured, meticulously organized,and had zero room for a six-foot-something, rhythm-oozing complication who could scramble her brain so badly that she actually stumbled doing a bourrée.

A bourrée. A step she could do in her sleep. A step so ingrained in her muscle memory that her body should’ve done it flawlessly even if she was surrounded by an army of distractions.

And one stupid glance at Beck, and she had all the grace of a giraffe on roller skates.

She needed to get a grip before she started falling out of pirouettes next.

Ingrid forced herself to regroup. To ignore him. To stop feeling that ridiculous, magnetic pull he seemed to radiate without even trying.

But every time she so much as glanced his way, she lost ground. Beck wasn’t just watching her, he was eating her alive with his eyes, and it made her skin buzz in the worst possible way.

When she looked back, the raw intensity of his gaze caught her off guard. Their eyes locked, and for several long, suffocating seconds, neither of them moved. The silence stretched, thickened, turned molten. What the hell was even happening?

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