Page 83 of One Last Encore

“Yes, please do. Make my dreams come true,” he muttered against her lips, his hands already finding her hips.

She was still giggling when, out of nowhere, she blurted, “Do you want to come to Thanksgiving at my dad’s?”

Beck froze mid-kiss. “I’m sorry, did you just invite me to meet your father while straddling me?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” she murmured. “It just… slipped out. You don’t have to say yes.”

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re asking me to meet your family. That’s not nothing.”

“I know.” She bit her lip, eyes flicking away. “He invited me this year. He usually forgets holidays exist, but apparently he’s going all out, and… I don’t know. It’d be nice not to go alone.”

The offer caught him off guard. Meeting her family was a big step, and the idea was both intimidating and weirdly exciting. He knew her relationship with her father and stepmother wasn’t exactly Hallmark-level close, but the fact that she wanted him there mattered.

“I’d love to,” he said, his smile spreading. “Should I bring my mom’s famous Jello salad?”

“Perfect,” she deadpanned. “That’ll pair beautifully with my dad’s dry turkey and passive-aggressive wine pours.”

“So… just smile, nod, and try not to choke on tension or dry poultry?”

“Exactly.” She traced her fingers lightly down his arm. “But having you there might make it feel a little less… heavy.”

His hand found hers, threading their fingers together. “Then I’m there. Weird Jello and all.”

Her smile softened. “Thank you.”

He leaned in again, pressing his forehead gently to hers. “You don’t have to thank me. I want to be where you are.”

He pulled her tighter into his arms, his chest warm with something suspiciously close to hope. Yeah. He could get used to this.

CHAPTER 23

INGRID. THANKSGIVING, PRESENT

"When you are born in a storm, you believe the world is made of lightning and thunder. Ready to strike without reason."

Letter dated November 27nd, 2 years ago from the present

"Can you pass the mound of butter-shaped turkey?" Ronan asked, his lips twitching as he nodded toward the vaguely bird-shaped, slightly sweaty butter sculpture that sat proudly in the center of the table. It looked less like a turkey and more like it had just barely survived a microwave-related accident.

Ingrid grinned as she handed it over, barely resisting the urge to make it gobble first. She’d splurged on the ridiculous thing for Friendsgiving, fully aware of how much her mother would’ve despised it. But this was her table, her friends, herholiday and it was already a thousand times better than any Thanksgiving she’d endured with her biological family.

"Ingrid really thought of everything this year," Quentin said, drowning his turkey in an alarming amount of gravy.

"The attention to detail is unreal, babe," Eden added, raising her glass in a small toast before taking a sip.

Ingrid smiled, slicing into her green beans, the knife squeaking faintly against her plate. Everything was perfect: Eden’s mashed potatoes, Ronan’s bad jokes, Quentin’s commitment to pouring gravy on everything. Domestic bliss.

Thenbang. A loud thump echoed through the wall like someone had body-slammed a couch.

She froze, fork mid-air.

Her gut twisted. Beck was alone today. She knew that. And sure, she could rationalize it. He probably wanted silence or to eat pie in his underwear while watching music documentaries. Still, all her brain could picture was him eating Stove Top stuffing in the dark like some tragic Dickensian character. She shook off the guilt, reaching for her drink–

Knock knock knock.

The sharp raps at the door cut through the chatter, sending her pulse skyrocketing. Her hand froze mid-air over her glass.

"Well, that’s ominous," Quentin muttered, pausing mid-gravy flood.

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