Page 102 of The Encore Effect

“That’s not why we’re pissed off,” Zach said around a mouthful of pierogi.

Beckett cupped the back of his neck, scratching at the short hair there. “It’s not?”

“How could you let her go? Again?” Zach asked, exasperated. “You two are meant to be together. And I cannot spend another ten years with you moping around because you miss her so much.”

“I don’t mope,” Beckett protested.

“You do. You mope. A lot,” Nico said.

“Wait, you’re not mad about the fake engagement thing?”

Logan shook his head. “No, man. Because it obviously wasn’t really fake.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s cool that you lied to us,” Zach said, pointing his fork at Beckett. He swung the utensil around to point at Nico. “Either of you.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Beckett said.

“We’re a family,” Logan said. “We don’t keep things from each other. We’ll always have your back.”

Beckett scraped his hand over his mouth, dropping into the armchair next to Logan. “I’m really glad to hear you say that. Because I need your help with something.”

“Well, shit, Becks, don’t keep us in suspense,” Zach said, bringing his plate over to join Beckett in the sitting area.

“Oh! Do you have a plan to get Kat back?” Nico asked, excitement bubbling through his words. He gripped Zach’s arm, shaking him. “I told you he’d have a plan.”

Beckett grinned, chuckling. “I have a plan.”

Chapter Forty-One

“Mail call!” Jo sing-songed as she kicked the front door closed behind her.

Kat looked up from her place on the couch where she’d been working on her latest book. Apparently, an unsettled relationship status with the man she was madly in love with was good fodder for writing. Who knew?

Jo slid off her shoes—she and Derek had a strict ‘no shoes in the house’ policy to protect the hardwood floors Derek was so anal retentive about—and flopped down on the couch next to Kat. “Let’s see what Mr. Wonderful sent you today.” She handed Kat a padded envelope.

Every day for the last week a new envelope had arrived, each one containing something different. The first was a long letter, multiple pages of handwritten notebook paper, the frilly torn edges from the spiral notebook making the pages stick together as she’d read Beckett’s detailed accounting of his plans for their future—the house in Aster Bay, the garden full of marigolds, the kids with her eyes.

“I’m not trying to scare you, Luna,” he’d written towards the end of the letter, “and if you need some time to catch up to where I am, that’s fine. You take all the time you need. But know I’m not giving up, and I’m not making a snap decision. I’ve had ten years to think about what I’d do if I was ever lucky enough to get a second chance with you. I’m not about to let this be how our story ends.”

She’d called him the minute she finished reading it, needing to hear his voice, steady and sure. They’d talked about nothing for hours—the water pressure in his Pennsylvania hotel room, the oddly sexual pottery on display throughout Jo and Derek’s house, how Jackson was doing in his medically supervised detox before leaving for rehab.

And in the morning, another envelope had arrived. This letter was shorter but no less detailed, describing all the little moments from their time over the last few months on tour that had stuck in his memory. Not the ones she would have expected, like the first time they had sex or when they’d made the rules of their arrangement over dinner. No, this was a list of tiny moments she barely remembered—when she’d laughed so hard at one of Lenny’s jokes that she’d snorted, the time she’d taken off her heels and chased Nico through the underground tunnels at a concert venue in Michigan because he’d stolen her last can of Dr. Pepper, the first time she wore her earrings on this tour.

She’d made sure she was wearing the earrings when she called him. That night, he admitted he wasn’t sleeping well and had snuck onto the tour bus to sleep in the sheets that still smelled like her. And she’d confessed to stealing one of his t-shirts before she left the tour. She’d been sleeping in it every night since.

“I wondered where that one went,” he’d said.

“Oh, please. You probably didn’t even notice it was missing. You have tons of black t-shirts.”

“That’s not black, love. That’s charcoal.”

Every day another letter, another phone call, another piece of her heart inextricably linked with his. Though, if she was honest, those pieces of her heart had belonged to Beckett for years.

“Go on! Open it!” Jo urged, shaking the padded envelope in front of Kat’s face. “It’s thicker than usual.”

Kat set her laptop aside and ripped open the package, tipping the contents into her hand. Out fell a worn paperback copy of her book Restless Hearts.

“He sent you one of your own books?” Jo asked.