Chapter 8Beck. Mid September, Five years ago
BECK. MID SEPTEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO
"This is a prepaid call from Nancy Greshaw, an inmate at the county correctional–"
Beck hung up fast. Then, as if nothing had happened, he casually slipped it back into his pocket, schooling his face into an expression of pure, unbothered innocence.
Ingrid was standing just a few feet away, eyebrows lifted in polite curiosity. She hadn't seen the caller ID, but she definitely noticed the way he'd gone full panic button for half a second.
He had made the rookie mistake of answering without checking the number, too distracted by Ingrid’s rare, subtle smile. Those smiles were like solar eclipses, they hardly ever happened, but when they did, you noticed.
His mother could wait. It wasn’t like she was going anywhere.
High-security prison had a way of keeping people…
stationary. Beck couldn't help but wonder how Ingrid would react if she knew the truth. From their first interaction, it was painfully clear she didn’t have much firsthand knowledge about prison.
Her idea of "doing time" was probably waiting in line for a matcha latte behind some guy debating oat milk ratios.
Beck was silently praying Ingrid didn’t ask questions, because he had absolutely no good way to spin my mother’s in prison for a felony into small talk.
They barely talked about casual things as it was.
Any time he tried to ask her something personal, she clammed up like a vault at Fort Knox, locking every detail away as if even the smallest revelation might put her in mortal danger.
The only time she showed any real interest in talking was when it involved their project or when she was roasting him alive.
Not that he was complaining. He kind of loved being sassed by her. Sue him. He had issues. Probably more than a few. And maybe he liked the idea of someone seeing past the surface and poking at all the messy, broken bits underneath.
He couldn’t shake the urge to get past her walls, just a little. Not to pry, not to dig, just to crack open a window and catch a glimpse of something real. Something that wasn’t calculated or deflected with a sharp remark.
Because for all her precision, for all her control, Beck had a gut feeling there was a whole other side to Ingrid. A part that didn’t fit into neat, pointed lines or perfect pirouettes.
In just three weeks of collaboration, Ingrid had taken his chaotic, borderline disaster of a drum piece and somehow transformed it into something…
well, refined . Her choreography was so stunning, so inspired, it even inspired him.
Made him want to actually put in some effort for once.
Not that he was going to say that out loud, of course.
He liked breathing. It was one of his favorite hobbies.
As they packed up, Ingrid slung her bag over her shoulder, clearly ready to leave. But for some reason, Beck wasn’t. He wasn’t used to enjoying things, but he was definitely enjoying this. Spending time with her. Being near her. Watching the way she moved, focused, thought.
Before he could think better of it, he blurted out, "Wanna come to a jazz show with me?"
Ingrid blinked. He could see the wheels turning in her head, like she was trying to figure out what his long game was.
"For educational purposes, of course," he added quickly, as if that made it sound any less like an excuse to spend more time with her.
Her expression was unreadable. "When?"
He hadn’t actually expected to get this far. "Uh. Tonight?" He cleared his throat, forcing himself to sound casual. "I know a great jazz lounge. One of my favorite drummers is playing. Could be solid inspiration for our piece."
There was a pause. Beck’s palms went slightly clammy. That was new. He never got nervous asking people for things. He wasn’t even sure he had nerves. But here he was, sweating like a guy who just Googled "how to hide a body" on a public Wi-Fi network.
Finally, Ingrid nodded. "Alright. But strictly for educational purposes." She emphasized strictly like she was laying down the law.
Beck bit back a smirk, nodding solemnly. Sure. Strictly educational. Whatever helped her sleep at night.
Ingrid had swapped her ballet gear for jeans so snug they should’ve come with a warning label and a sweater that draped over her body in a way that was way too distracting.
As they strolled from rehearsal to the jazz club, Beck found himself fighting a losing battle with his own peripheral vision.
The sway of her hips? A siren call he couldn’t ignore.
And those jeans? They clung to her like they’d been custom-made to highlight every curve, every perfect inch.
Her ass looked like it had been handcrafted by the universe’s most devoted artist, and Beck couldn’t look away, no matter how hard he tried.
At this point, he was convinced that if temptation had a uniform, Ingrid was currently wearing it.
They arrived at the venue with an hour to kill, so Beck suggested they head across the street to Central Park.
He set Ingrid down on a bench with all the calm of someone who hadn’t just spent the last few minutes mentally praying for his brain to start functioning again.
"I’ll be right back," he muttered. "I’ll grab us some hot chocolate. "
He’d seen her drink it once in the cafeteria, and the image had burned itself into his memory. Not that she’d ever told him she liked it. No, he was just paying attention. Not that it mattered.
What did matter, though, was how, despite every urge telling him to shut it down, he found himself remembering all these little things about her. He didn’t know what was worse: how much he was noticing or how much he was enjoying it.
She was partial to dark chocolate over milk chocolate and had a baffling tolerance for scalding-hot drinks.
She hated olives, preferred instrumental music when she needed to focus, and, despite her best efforts to appear aloof, had a soft spot for little kids who waved at her.
Beck hadn’t meant to take stock of these things, but here he was, storing away every small detail like a man preparing for a very specific pop quiz.
September had crisped the air, and the trees above them were showing off in fiery shades of orange, red, and gold. Balancing two to-go cups from La Maison du Chocolat like a man on a mission, Beck rejoined Ingrid and plopped down beside her, handing her the steaming cup.
"La Maison du Chocolat? My favorite," Ingrid said, her French accent flawless as she curled her fingers around the cup and took a slow sip. Beck raised an eyebrow. How cultured was she?
"You speak French?" he asked, unable to help himself.
"Not really. My mom lives there. She has since I was a teenager, so I’ve picked up bits and pieces over the years."
"Wow, France. That’s cool," he said, though something about the conversation made him feel oddly out of place.
The closest he had ever been to Paris was Paris, Texas, on a road trip with his mom and brother one summer.
He had been eight, and it was during one of her brief sober spells–a stretch of time he mostly remembered because she actually made them sandwiches instead of handing them loose dollar bills and telling them to figure it out themselves.
"Yeah, super cool," Ingrid sighed, her fingers tightening slightly around the cup, her voice carrying the kind of forced enthusiasm that came from years of pretending something didn’t bother her. Beck noticed the shift immediately, wanted to ask, but before he could, she changed the subject.
"Thanks for the hot chocolate," she said. "Can I give you money for it? I know how overpriced it is."
Beck blinked, caught off guard. He had just dropped twenty real-life dollars on two cups of hot chocolate.
Almost his entire grocery budget for the week if he strategically avoided name brands, convinced himself that ramen was packed with essential nutrients, and maybe "borrowed" some condiments from the diner down the street.
And yet, here he was, making it rain like a man with zero financial foresight.
All because it was her favorite.
He’d noticed the labeled cup in her hand at practice, the way she always got the same order, how she cradled it like it was the elixir of life itself.
"Nah," he said, shrugging. "It’s all good."
She smiled. And just like that, he was twenty dollars poorer and entirely too aware that he would 100% do it again if it made her smile like that.
She continued to look at him. The dying golden light filtered through the trees, a crisp breeze carried the scent of fallen leaves and roasted chestnuts from a nearby cart.
Beck's gaze flicked over her face, catching on the way her sweater deepened the warmth of her light brown eyes–not just brown.
They were the shade of expensive whiskey.
Or the glossy swirl of a caramel drizzle on a fancy latte.
Whatever it was, it was warm, and it did something treacherous to his chest, something dangerously close to soft.
Beck tipped his head back, pretending to admire the canopy of green and orange leaves when, in reality, he just needed to not blurt out something ridiculous about how pretty she looked.
"I love autumn," he announced instead, words tumbling out to fill the space before his brain could betray him.
"Me too," Ingrid said. "It feels like a reset. The only thing I don’t like is that it means winter is right around the corner."
"But nothing beats winter in New York City. Holiday lights, fresh snow, the whole place looking like a Christmas card. It’s magic."
"I don’t know. Winter makes me feel lonely, I guess," Ingrid admitted, her voice quieter. The second the words left her mouth, she winced slightly, as if she wanted to reach out and shove them back in. Beck frowned.
"Why?"