Page 100 of One Last Encore

"It is," Ingrid said with a laugh. "Weston better channel his inner forklift. No pressure or anything."

"He’ll nail it," Beck assured her. "And if he doesn’t, I’ll pop that arm off like a Barbie limb."

"You’re ridiculous," she said, but her smile stretched wide.

Beck’s eyes sparkled. "Guess what else is creeping up?"

"Our duet," Ingrid said immediately. "You ready?"

"It’s our baby. A perfect mix of both of us," Beck said, wiggling his brows.

"Must be immaculate conception," Ingrid teased, her grin downright devious.

Beck exhaled sharply, tilting his head back like he was begging the universe for strength. Patience, they said. Respect. Be a gentleman. Well, congratulations to him. If there were awards for blue balls, he’d have an entire goddamn trophy case. Hell, he’d have a wing dedicated in his honor.

But the tension between them? It was about to drive him clinically insane. He was more than happy to go down on her, wherever, whenever, however she wanted. And he had. Enthusiastically. Frequently.

But every time they got close to having sex, he pulled back. Like some chivalrous prince with a tragic amount of self-control. Because he wanted it to be perfect. When the hell had he become such a sap?

"Patience is a virtue," he murmured, glancing down at her parted lips, aching to close the space between them.

"Whoever said that hadn’t tried to resist you," she whispered, leaning closer.

Beck nearly died on the spot. His very patient, very respectful self was hanging on by a thread.

Her eyes darkened with desire, and Beck felt the heat of it crash over him. His heart pounded as she tilted her face up, closing the final inches between them.

Then finally their lips met. This kiss wasn’t careful. It wasn’t measured. Beck’s hands cradled her face, while Ingrid’s fingers fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer like even an inch of space was too much. Her tongue slid against his, slow, slick, devastating. And that was it.

He pulled back, chest heaving, because if she kept kissing him like that, he wasn’t going to be able to stop. And fucking her in front of her entire dance class probably wasn’t the grand romantic gesture he’d been holding out for. Yeah. He was definitely going to need a cold shower.

"Where is my swan?" A sharp French-accented voice cut through the moment like a bucket of ice water to the soul.

Ingrid winced. Beck barely had time to react before he grabbed the smoothie from the cupholder and pressed it into her hands.

"Goodbye, my swan," he whispered dramatically.

"Goodbye, my sweet prince," she said, all mock-serious, stealing one last kiss before slipping out of her seat. Then she sprinted toward the stage like she’d just remembered she left the oven on.

Beck snorted, unable to stop the grin tugging at his face.

Yeah. That was her. Pure determination in baby pink. And somehow, miraculously, she was his.

CHAPTER 28

INGRID. EARLY DECEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO

"You're telling me you've lived in Brooklyn for three years and have never been to the Brooklyn Bridge?" Ingrid asked, her voice thick with disbelief.

The setting sun reflected off the East River, drenching the skyline in gold as they strolled along the bridge. The cold air nipped at her cheeks, her hat barely keeping her hair from whipping wildly around her face.

"Nope," Beck admitted, completely unapologetic. "I know, I’m a disgrace to transplants everywhere."

"Pretty much," she teased, clicking her tongue. "I think it’s borderline illegal, but I’d have to check the local bylaws."

He closed the space between them, pressing her gently against the railing. Her breath caught, then turned into a laugh, soft and surprised, as she grabbed hold for balance, the metal cool beneath her hands.

"You know me," he said, his voice low and near, threading through the hum of traffic and the quiet rush of water below. "I like to live on the edge."

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