Page 5 of One Last Encore

"To see her favorite person," a deep voice drawled behind her.

And just like that, Ingrid's soul tried to eject from her body. Thatvoice. A shiver ran down her spine, the kind laced with memories she’d spent years trying to repress.

She swallowed hard, plastered on the most neutral expression she could manage, and turned to face the man who had once had the power to destroy her. The man who had, in fact, done athoroughly excellent jobof it.

He was standing there. Smug. Infuriatingly un-ruined. Looking like someone who had never once had an existential crisis over an ex and definitely never eaten an entire baguette out of stress.

"Hi, neighbor," Beck said, leaning against his doorframe with a slow, knowing smile. "Trying to avoid me?"

CHAPTER 2

INGRID, PRESENT

"I would rather be alone than ever be a stranger to you."

Letter dated October 16th, 1 year ago from the present

Ingrid blinked. Once. Twice. Nope, Beck was still there, leaning against the doorframe of his new apartment like he was posing for a GQ spread. He had one ankle crossed over the other, like he owned the whole damn building.

Freddie, hersupposedride-or-die, was cradled in his arms, purring like he'd single-handedly saved her from a burning building. Typical. The little traitor was making biscuits on his arm, practically spelling outI love this man more than youin Morse code.

Beck still carried that lazy confidence, like he hadn’t just strolled back into her world and blown it to pieces. His light brown hair was perfectly tousled, as if he had rolled out of bedlooking that annoyingly good, and that signature smirk, equal parts cocky and infuriating, still played at his lips.

Every time she saw him, it hit like a punch to the chest, knocking the breath from her lungs. It was immediate, visceral, her body betraying her before her brain had time to fight back. A reaction so ingrained, so automatic, it felt unfair.

But looking into those denim-blue eyes was worse, like pouring salt into a wound that never really healed. Every glance stirred something buried deep inside her, a homesickness so raw it throbbed. The kind you feel when you return somewhere you once belonged, only to find the lights off and the door bolted shut.

And now, standing in front of her, he was right there. Real and unshaken, as if time had never touched him.

For the first time in years, she let herself look. Let herself take him in. And despite everything, despite the wreckage he left behind, she couldn’t help but be drawn in by how devastatingly familiar he still was.

Beck let his gaze sweep over her with something close to amusement. His eyes dragged over her like he was taking inventory, committing every detail to memory.

Her skin prickled. That old, traitorous thrill bubbled up, pulling her back to the first time they met, when everything in her had felt too bright, too alive.

"What? No neighborly welcome? No heartfelt embrace? I’m guessing you didn’t spend all day slaving away in the kitchen to bake me a celebratory pie?"

Oh, sure. Like she was some 1950s housewife, ready to present him with a pie and a kiss on the cheek, instead of someone actively resisting the urge to launch herself into the void.

"No pie. No cat," Ingrid snipped, crossing her arms over her coffee-stained pink leotard, the fabric of her pants swishing with the movement.

"Hmm. It seems Freddie disagrees." He tilted his chin toward the double-crossing furball, who gazed up at him like he’d hung the damn moon. "Beatrice next door was much friendlier. She gave me some cinnamon raisin bread. You, on the other hand, are being entirely unwelcoming."

Ingrid scoffed. "Beatrice is ninety-two and bakes for everyone. She'd hand-feed a serial killer if he complimented her curtains."

Beck grinned. "And yet, she gave me two slices. What does that say?"

"That she has poor judgment."

"Or that I have undeniable charm."

Ingrid narrowed her eyes. "Or that I now have to go to Beatrice’s apartment and warn her before she starts knitting you a sweater."

Beck smirked, clearly enjoying himself. Meanwhile, Freddie stretched luxuriously in his arms, as if she, too, had fallen under his ridiculous spell.Judas.

"Unhand my cat, you heathen," Ingrid demanded, reaching for Freddie.

Beck just smiled at her, that maddening, insufferable, knowingly amused smile, like she was something adorable instead of someone barely restraining the urge to strangle him. That damn smile felt like a barbed arrow straight to the heart.

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