Page 17 of One Last Encore

And Ingrid? Well, he’d seen her dance–sharp, precise, and mesmerizing. Plus, he had a decent read on her by now like a kitten pretending to be a tiger. All hiss, no real bite.

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering behind them. "Why do I feel like you’re trying to trick me?"

"Trick you?" He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning innocence. "I’m just looking out for your grade, princess."

She crossed her arms, shifting her weight to one side. "You’re joking."

"Dead serious."

As if on cue, the professor stepped in, clipboard in hand, signaling the official start of the madness. Students immediately stiffened, eyes darting around the room like predators on the hunt. Everyone knew the drill. There’d be a brief speech, some obligatory words about collaboration and artistic integrity but really, everyone was already strategizing. No one wanted to be left scrambling at the end, stuck with the musician no one else wanted.

Ingrid’s gaze flicked toward the barely controlled madness, dancers already swooping in, musicians scrambling behind.

"You better decide fast," Beck murmured, nodding toward the frenzy. "Clock’s ticking."

"Sure, when pigs fly. Keep dreaming, sweetie," she shot back, arms crossing tighter in defiance.

"Worth a shot," he said. Then, tilting his head toward the corner of the room, he added, "Have fun trying to dance tothat."

She followed his gaze, to the poor tuba player struggling to keep his oversized instrument from toppling over.

Beck didn’t wait for her reaction. He strolled toward the windows, hands stuffed in his pockets, pretending to be deeply invested in the view. Below, the streets of New York buzzed, horns blaring and people rushing past, life moving on as if some great ballet-musician showdown wasn’t happening behind him.

Then, silence. A pause just long enough to make his smirk widen. Soft, reluctant footsteps approached.

"Fine," Ingrid huffed, each syllable heavy with reluctance. "We can be partners."

"But I still don’t trust you," she added, shooting a final, suspicious glance at the tuba player, like he might ambush her with a rogue polka solo.

"Good instincts," Beck said, not even bothering to turn from the window.

Irritated, Ingrid leaned closer. "What are you even looking at?"

"Flying pigs, sweetie."

CHAPTER 6

INGRID. EARLY SEPTEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO

A week had passed since their first Repertory, Collaborations, and Performance class. Course expectations were laid out, partnerships were formed, and Ingrid had, regrettably, sealed her fate by choosing Beck as her partner.

Beck, of course, had turned the entire process into a one-man show. Lounging against the piano like he was posing for an album cover, he surveyed the room with an expression so smug it could have fueled an entire semester’s worth of her rage.

One by one, dancers had approached him, eager to partner up. And one by one, he turned them down. He gave each of them a slow, regretful shake of his head. Then, just when Ingrid thought he couldn't get more unbearable, his gaze locked onto hers. And he pointed. directly at her. Like some ancient ruler selecting a gladiator for battle.

It had made a sharp, hot jolt of irritation shot down Ingrid’s spine, so fast and so intense she was surprised she didn’t spontaneously combust on the spot.

The second her glare sharpened, his smirk only widened–razor-sharp, utterly insufferable, and carrying the satisfaction of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

He was thriving on her frustration, soaking it up like a plant basking in sunlight.

And the more she bristled? The more obnoxiously entertained he seemed, his blue eyes glinting with the pure, unfiltered amusement of a man who had just discovered his new favorite hobby. And, unfortunately, that hobby was her.

It hadn’t taken long for Ingrid to size him up: charming, conniving, and quite possibly a sociopath with a pretty smile. She’d overheard the whispers from the other dancers–the bar-hopping, the effortless flirting, fights, the seemingly endless string of hookups. Apparently, Beck was the kind of guy who could talk his wayintofree drinks andoutof trouble.

The man was a walking con artist with drumsticks. And she knew his type. He used people. Played games for his own amusement. The thought of him playing those games with someone she actually cared about, like Eden, was enough to put him firmly at the top of her watch list.

If Beck thought, for even a second, that she was going to be another one of his little amusements, he was in for a rude awakening.

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