Page 36 of The Encore Effect

Beckett’s grin widened, the corners of his eyes wrinkling, and goddamn him for being so handsome when Kat was barely keeping it together as it was.

“Lots of people wear glasses,” Kat said lamely.

“The age difference,” the woman continued. “Most of your books have a bigger age gap, but Brent is only eight years older than Kathy.”

Beckett’s eyes sparkled. “It feels like a bigger age gap when you’re younger,” he offered.

It had. When she was twenty-two and he was thirty, their age difference had been a constant point of conversation, him afraid people would think he was taking advantage of her, and her afraid he’d find someone closer to his own age who understood him better. Funny how those eight years felt inconsequential now.

“And the initials. Brent and Kathy, Beckett and Katerina,” someone in the crowd added.

Beckett leaned away from the microphone, one hand resting easily on the back of Kat’s chair. His chuckle skipped down her spine, taunting her, as he pulled his glasses from some inner pocket of his leather jacket. With the black frames balanced on the bridge of his nose, his resemblance to the cover model was uncanny.

“It’s a coincidence,” Kat said. A puff of hot air hit her cheek as he exhaled his disbelief at her denial. But how the hell did he know about Brent and Kathy anyway? “Are there any other questions?”

“This one’s for Beckett, if that’s okay.” This woman’s black hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail and she wore a Midnight Storm t-shirt cut into a crop top. “Which book is your favorite?”

Kat shook her head, dismissing the question. “He hasn’t read my books.”

“Yes, I have.” The humor disappeared from his face, replaced by some mix of confusion and frustration.

“You don’t have to lie,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“You read fantasy. Dragons and swords and—”

“Usually, yes. And your books.”

Some fragile thing began to form between them as he held her gaze, a crystalline, delicate understanding, terrifying and wonderful. Like seeing. Like being seen.

He was the first to look away, turning his attention back to the audience, his plastic publicity smile fading to his more usual scowl. “I’m shit at remembering titles, but I like the one where they spend the summer in a cabin on Lake Ostego.” The breath escaped Kat’s lungs in a rush, her scalp tingling as adrenaline spread through her veins. “Don’t remember the water being so warm, though,” he said, drawing chuckles from the audience.

The water had been freezing that summer. Kat could still feel the goosebumps raised along his biceps beneath her hands when he tugged her close, wrapped her legs around his waist. The chill around them despite the heat between them, the steam rising from their skin as his mouth explored her neck, hungry and warm and—

“If you’ll excuse us for a moment.” Kat grabbed Beckett’s hand and tugged him off the platform into the small storeroom at the back of the shop.

The word ‘room’ was generous. The space was barely more than a closet, the light fixture overhead struggling to give off even a dim glow. The door closed behind them, covering them in shadow and forcing them to stand closer than she would have liked. She didn’t need closeness right now. She needed distance—from his easy banter with the crowd and the way his eyes roamed over her, seeing her without letting her see him. Flashes of the man he used to be hidden behind the same wall he’d always put between them. Except—

“You’ve read my books?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

He grunted an acknowledgment.

Her mind unspooled, racing through hundreds of thousands of words she’d never imagined he’d read, her deepest truths and most desperate fantasies, all the things she’d wished they’d said. All the memories she’d pieced together with Scotch tape and string until she’d shaped them into something new. All the love stories that ended happily. Unlike theirs.

“I don’t believe you,” she whispered.

She couldn’t. Because if he’d read her books, that meant he knew every pathetic ‘what if’ she’d indulged over the years, every detail she remembered and mourned. He knew she’d never gotten over him. He knew. And if he knew…

“Complete honesty, remember, Luna?”

She closed her eyes against the onslaught of memories, the rush of feelings she didn’t want to feel. This honesty was too much. “Don’t call me that.”

“What should I call you then?” He brought his lips so close to her ear she could feel the heat of his breath even though he didn’t touch her. “Kitten? Little Bird? Lucky? That one’s my favorite,” he said, listing off the nicknames her heroes had given her heroines. He hummed, the rumble in his chest drawing an answering rush of heat low in her belly, despite her mortification. “I’ve read them all, love.”