Page 91 of One Last Encore

BECK. THANKSGIVING, FIVE YEARS AGO

Beck had walked into the liquor store with a plan: buy a decent bottle of red wine, impress the parents, survive the afternoon.

The clerk handed him a bottle with a label written entirely in French and a forty-dollar price tag that made his stomach tighten. Forty bucks felt like a splurge, but he’d forked it over, figuring it was worth the investment.

But standing in Ingrid’s parents’ elegant dining room, surrounded by wine that probably had birth certificates, he started having second thoughts. His sad little bottle sat on the polished table like a lost tourist, while Ingrid’s dad, Charles, gave it the kind of look usually reserved for parking tickets and expired yogurt.

Apparently, it wasn’t as impressive as Beck had hoped. It’s the thought that counts, right?

"Thanks, Bret," Charles said, in a tone so neutral it felt weaponized. Apparently, the thought didn’t count. At all.

"Dad, his name is Beck," Ingrid said, smiling tightly as she reached for Beck’s hand under the table.

Before he could fully panic, Ingrid’s stepmother, Anika, floated in like a breeze wearing Chanel. She was radiant, sharp-eyed, and already rescuing him.

"Well, I personally love a merlot-cabernet blend," Anika said, lifting the bottle like Beck had brought her a lost puppy and not a bargain-bin wine that barely survived the drive over.

Beck exhaled, chest loosening an inch. One ally secured.

"I’m not really a wine guy," Beck said, unbuttoning the top of Finn’s blazer, which was somehow both too tight and too itchy. "More of a whiskey type, if I’m being honest."

The jacket pinched his shoulders every time he breathed, but hey, if he passed out from lack of circulation at least he wouldn’t have to finish dinner.

"Don’t mind Charles," Anika said, flashing Beck a conspiratorial grin. "He bought a vineyard last year and now thinks he’s God’s gift to fermentation. But between you and me? He's just drinking expensive grape juice. Real people drink whiskey."

Charles made a sound deep in his throat, a rich person noise that meantI object, but not enough to get my hands dirty.

Unbothered, Anika poured two fingers of something expensive-looking into a crystal glass and handed it to Beck.

"Cheers," Beck said, clinking their glasses and immediately throwing the whiskey back like he was still at a dive bar after last call.

It burned smooth and rich, probably distilled from hundred-dollar bills and generational wealth. He could feel it trickling down into his soul or possibly into his next credit card statement.

Across the room, Charles stared at Beck’s tattoos like they were personally lowering his property value.

Beck just smiled wider: bright, unbothered, and fully committed to the bit.Smile. Nod. Look trustworthy. Don’t let them smell the fear.

"So, how did you two meet?" Anika asked, her warm smile cutting through the tension.

"Prisoner pen pals?" Charles muttered into his wine glass.

Beck fought back a grin. He was used to snap judgments. The combination of his tattoos, broad build, and general air of "this guy has definitely been in a fistfight" always made people assume the worst. Funny, considering he was probably the most law-abiding person in his family.

For a brief moment, he considered casually mentioning that his mother was actively incarcerated, just to see Charles choke on his overpriced cabernet. But he let the thought pass. Winning over Ingrid’s father was already an uphill battle; no need to turn it into Mount Everest.

"We met at Juilliard," Beck said instead, keeping his tone warm and non-threatening. He glanced at Ingrid, his voice softening. "We had a class together and teamed up for a project. We just… clicked." His eyes lingered on her for a moment. "She’s incredible. The first time I saw her dance, I was completely blown away."

Charles sniffed, unimpressed. "Yes, Ingrid is very special. She deserves nothing but the best," he said, each word sharpened to a point and aimed directly at Beck.

Ingrid didn’t even blink. She turned to her father with a look so cutting Beck was amazed Charles didn’t physically flinch.

"Beck is a musician," she said, her voice steady and proud. "An insanely talented drummer."

The words hit Beck harder than he expected. Warmth unfurled in his chest, catching him off guard. She didn’t have to say that. She didn’t have to stand up for him. But she did without hesitation, without apology, and something about it hit deeperthan any compliment ever had. She chose him, right there, in front of the person whose approval she probably cared about most.

When their eyes met, she gave him a quick, secret smile. Nothing flashy. Just hers. And Beck felt his heart pull tight in his chest, gratitude and something a lot like awe threading together.

Charles arched a skeptical eyebrow. "I didn’t realize Juilliard had a drumming program," he said dryly.

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