Chapter 9Ingrid. Mid September, Five years ago #2
"Another outing?" she blurted, way too quickly. Her brain caught up to her words a second too late, but there was no taking them back now. The idea of spending more time with him sent a flutter through her chest that she definitely wasn’t okay with. But it also triggered a warning in her mind.
She hesitated, trying to get a grip. Did she actually want another outing?
Her body screamed yes, but her brain was waving a flurry of red flags.
She’d spent most of her adult life avoiding relationships, they were too distracting, too risky.
And yet, here she was, practically throwing caution to the wind. She blamed the wine.
"If I win," she said, voice slow, "we keep things strictly professional. No more outings."
Beck tilted his head, considering. "And if I win?"
She met his gaze head-on. "If you win, we go on another outing."
His lips twitched, his amusement barely contained. "So, just so I’m clear–if you win, I leave you alone. And if I win, you willingly spend more time with me?"
She narrowed her eyes at his expression, sensing the smug undertone. "Yes," she said firmly, willing herself to sound confident.
“Is that what you really want, princess?"
No. Absolutely not. "Yes," she said anyway, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her doubt.
"Okay, whatever you say." He shrugged, far too nonchalant, and that irritated her more than it should have.
Where was the pushback? The cocky retort? The resistance? He was supposed to act at least a little disappointed, maybe even try to talk her out of it. Instead, he just accepted it like he already knew exactly how this was going to end.
She exhaled, rolling her shoulders back. Fine. Whatever. She’d made the bet, and she was going to win.
He led her to the pool table, grabbed two pool sticks from the wall, and handed one to her. As he set up the balls in a neat triangle, he glanced up with an easy grin. "Go ahead and break."
She leaned over, lined up her shot, and, with a quick movement, sent the balls scattering across the table, a few dropping neatly into the pockets.
As they took turns shooting, Beck chatted casually, asking about her classes, her friends, and her life outside the dance studio.
She kept her responses short at first, but somehow, against her better judgment, she started easing into the conversation.
She found herself talking about Eden and Sylvia, about her favorite classes, even laughing at one of his gig stories.
She was ahead by four points. Which, normally, would have felt great. But instead of feeling pleased, she was oddly annoyed.
He wasn’t even trying . His shots were careless, his stance lazy, and it was painfully obvious that he wasn’t taking the game seriously. Instead, he was watching her. Talking. Smirking. Like the game itself didn’t matter. Like he didn’t care if he lost.
Her grip on the pool stick tightened. Did he not want to win? What kind of fool turned down the opportunity to bask in her reluctant, begrudging company?
Good, she told herself. It was for the best. She didn’t need the distraction, especially not one with a face that looked like it had been chiseled by a deity with entirely too much free time.
She shook the thought away and leaned down to take her next shot, her focus narrowing on the cue ball. Ignore him. Play the game. Win.
"Hold on," Beck’s voice was suddenly warm and entirely too close to her ear.
She froze as he stepped in behind her, his body barely brushing against hers. The scent of whiskey and his cologne curled around her senses, making it hard to think, let alone breathe properly.
"You’re favoring your left side," he noted, his voice smooth. His hand brushed lightly against her shoulder as he adjusted her position. "Pull your arm back. Like this."
She swallowed hard and mimicked his movements, trying desperately to focus on the game instead of the way his breath skimmed her skin.
"Yeah, just like that," he murmured. Before she could register what was happening, he bit her ear.
It was barely a graze, more of a playful nip than anything else, but it was enough.
Her body jerked in surprise, her grip slipping sending the cue stick skimming off course. The cue ball shot forward, directly into the eight ball.
She watched, horror dawning, as the eight ball rolled slowly, almost mockingly, across the table and dropped neatly into the corner pocket.
Silence. Then, a low chuckle vibrated against her back.
"Whoops," Beck said, utterly unrepentant, his chest shaking with laughter against her shoulder. "Guess I win."
Ingrid spun around so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.
The room wobbled for a second before she realized the real problem, she was trapped.
Beck stood flush in front of her, arms braced on either side, hands gripping the pool table.
There was nowhere to go, nowhere to look that didn’t land squarely on him –his eyes, his mouth, that smirk.
Oh, he had planned this. The whole damn thing. He had played the long game, cheated, and manipulated his way into winning. The realization sent a little flip through her stomach. He wanted to spend time with her. Which was sweet. And therefore, absolutely horrifying.
Her grip on the pool stick tightened. She was so not letting him get away with this.
With a swift motion, she slid the end of the cue stick under his chin and tilted his head up, forcing him to meet her glare. "You are such a cheater," she accused, her voice dripping with frustration.
Beck only smirked. That lazy, insufferable, I could do this all day kind of smirk that made her want to either kiss him or smack him upside the head with the cue stick. Possibly both, one right after the other.
His eyes gleamed with amusement, completely unbothered by the stick under his chin. If anything, he looked pleased, like this was all going exactly according to plan. Like she was going exactly according to plan.
"It only worked because I fluster you," he said, slow and taunting. "Just admit it."
Her heart instantly betrayed her, hammering against her ribs like it had zero loyalty. Useless organ. But she was not going to give him the satisfaction.
"Never," she shot back, firm. "Because you don’t."
His body was heat and muscle, the kind of presence that swallowed the air around him. When his eyes locked onto hers, it wasn’t just intensity–it was hunger. Slow, burning, unsettling. It slithered down her spine and curled in low, dark places.
"Don’t I?" he murmured, voice a velvet blade.
She didn’t get the chance to flinch. One deft flick of his wrist, and the pool cue was no longer in her hands. He had it. And then he had her.
The smooth wood grazed her shoulder, a featherlight touch that felt anything but harmless. He dragged it down slowly across her collarbone, the slope of her arm, the dip of her waist. The fabric of her shirt shifted with the motion, a whisper of friction.
It should've been cold. It should’ve felt like nothing. But every nerve lit up like it had been waiting for this moment. And he was watching her.
Not the pool cue. Her.
Eyes pinned to hers, drinking in every stuttered breath, every involuntary twitch of her lips, every tightening muscle. There was no space left to hide. No shield strong enough to withstand that kind of focus.
Her throat worked as she swallowed, trying to tamp down the fire building in her chest, her stomach, between her thighs. But her body wasn’t interested in self-preservation. Her pulse was erratic, heartbeat hammering against his proximity, and heat curled so deep inside her.
This wasn’t real. He wasn’t real. Just adrenaline. Just a mistake waiting to happen.
But Beck’s smirk said otherwise. There was blood in the water, and he was circling her. That should’ve been her cue to run, to get out before he had her between his teeth.
But no. She stayed. Because damn it, she couldn’t help it. He wasn’t done wrecking her life yet, and some wild, reckless part of her wanted to watch it burn.
And then, just to ruin her further, he leaned in and murmured, "You’re a terrible liar, Ingrid."
Her breath caught hard in her throat. Her name. Not "princess." Not some smug, infuriating nickname. Just Ingrid. It shouldn’t have felt intimate. But it landed like a whisper against bare skin. Like he’d peeled something open, taken a long look inside.
She continued to glare at him, but her brain was melting, slipping through her fingers like heat-drunk honey.
"You–" Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. Words had abandoned her entirely.
Beck grinned.
"Looks like we have another outing, princess."
Her breath came out sharp, fists curling tight at her sides. If she survived this man, it would be a goddamn miracle.
His fingers grazed her jaw, tilting her face up until their eyes locked. His thumb brushed her lower lip softly lingering until she parted her lips like it was instinct, like he owned her breath now too.
"That wasn’t fair," she whispered, even though her voice didn’t sound angry anymore. It sounded… breathless. Shaky.
Beck’s eyes darkened, the kind of look that promised nothing good and everything she shouldn't want.
"I don’t play fair when it comes to you."
His voice was all heat now. Every syllable ghosted over her skin like a kiss she didn’t get to feel.
His hand slid from her jaw down to the curve of her neck, pausing just at the hollow of her throat. Barely touching. And somehow setting off every fire alarm inside her. The lights in the bar should’ve flickered.
"Don’t worry," he murmured, lips brushing close enough to make her sway. "You can pick the next date."
Date. The word hit like a slap. Snapped her back to reality so fast it was like getting dunked in ice water.
Ingrid shoved against his chest, hard enough to reclaim air, sanity, something resembling her spine. But her heart was still hammering like it had a mind of its own.
"No. No dates. I don’t date." Her voice was sharper than intended, but she needed the reminder just as much as he did.
Beck let her go easily, but that damn smirk stayed, plastered on his face like it had signed a long-term lease.
"Okay," he drawled. " Outing , then."
"Sure. Right after I toss you into the nearest dumpster. Seems more on brand."
"Tempting. But I was thinking something with less sanitation protocol and more popcorn. Like the movies."
"Let me guess. So you can yawn, stretch, and pull off the classic middle-school arm-over-the-shoulder maneuver?"
"Please. I was thinking horror movie. High stakes. Screams. You, clinging to me like a koala."
She snorted. "The only thing I’ll be clinging to is my phone while I dial 911."
"And say what, exactly? "I'm trapped at the movies with a devastatingly charming man and he’s armed with a large extra butter popcorn’?"
"That’s oddly specific," she said.
"I’ve practiced."
Beck just stepped back, looking way too pleased with himself.
Agreeing to go out with him was a mistake.
A loud, sparkly, neon-lit, welcome-to-your-doom mistake.
But it buzzed through her like she’d downed three espressos and licked a battery.
He had won the game. The rules were clear.
She had no choice. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.