Page 2 of The Encore Effect

Beckett’s jaw clenched in an annoyed scowl she knew all too well. He raked his hand through his wet hair, a fine spray of water misting his shoulders.

Kat sighed. “Maybe it’s time you started doing the alternate choreography. We could swap out the encore for something less physically demanding and—”

“No.”

“Beckett—”

“I said no, Kat. I’m fine.”

Somehow his calling her by her first name was even worse.

He shrugged her off and did his best to mask his uneven gait as he made his way down the hall. Kat checked her watch. Seventeen minutes.

Had he always been this stubborn? The Beckett she remembered was softer, playful even. But that Beckett hadn’t made an appearance on this tour.

“You’re not fine. You’re hurt.”

“No more than usual.”

“Hurt at all is a problem.”

The clack of her heels on the polished concrete floor drowned out his huff, but she didn’t need to hear it to know he was dismissing her concerns. Like always.

She just wanted to get everyone to the restaurant and order the biggest plate of pasta on the menu. The sooner they were all fed, the sooner they could go back to the hotel, and she could finally get a moment’s peace without her famous ex. She could take off her heels and remember that she had a life that didn’t revolve around him anymore, maybe even get a few thousand words written before exhaustion overtook her. A few hundred at least.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d written more than five hundred words in a sitting. Before the tour started, to be sure. Unfortunately, romance novels didn’t write themselves, and she could not push back this release again.

But she couldn’t even think about writing a single word until she was sure the band was settled for the night—and that included taking care of Beckett’s injury.

“What’s the plan, Becks? Push until your knee gives out entirely? I bet that alternate choreo will look real good when you’re hobbling around the stage on crutches.”

“I’m taking care of it,” he grated out.

“Not from what I can see.”

“Just because I haven’t told you something doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”

She stopped short, his sharp reply a lash against her skin.

Beckett’s steps slowed, his shoulders slumped. “Look—”

“I am well aware that there is plenty you don’t tell me,” she forced out.

“Kat—”

“Ice your damn knee.”

She marched past the injured pop star without meeting his eyes. She didn’t want to see the apology on his face, the strain of over a decade of history bubbling beneath every word.

But despite the steady clomp of her heels and the bustle of the crew, she couldn’t drown out the uneven shuffle step of the one man she’d never gotten over.

Chapter Two

The restaurant was little more than a nightclub that happened to serve a handful of food items—with far too many Storm Chasers lingering near their table for Beckett’s liking.

“Who picked this place?” Kat asked.

“Jackson,” the band chorused.