Page 71 of The Encore Effect

“What’s that?” she asked.

“None of us know how to bake.”

Kat laughed, holding open the door to the soundstage for the band to walk through. “That’s kind of the point, Nico. If even you five can do it, anyone can.”

The members of Midnight Storm filed dutifully through the door, Jackson throwing a wink over his shoulder at the PA, but Beckett paused, lowering his lips to her ear. “I think I should be offended by that.”

She bit the insides of her cheeks to hold in her laugh. “Because you’re such a good baker?”

His hand settled on her hip, the corner of his lips turning up. “I know my way around the kitchen.” He hooked his index finger through the belt loop on her jeans and tugged, just enough for her to feel the demand in it, to make her sway towards him. “Someday when we’re not living out of suitcases, I’ll show you.”

She could picture it so clearly, sitting at his kitchen island while he made French toast in the morning, no nosy bandmates on the other side of the door, no touring schedule to adhere to. She could hear the sizzle of the butter in the pan, smell the cinnamon in the air, feel his morning stubble against her cheek—the fantasy she’d written countless times but never thought they could have for themselves.

But maybe now they could. Maybe they would rewrite their own ending after all.

Her chest ached with longing for the image he had conjured with that one simple word: someday. With only three stops left on the tour, someday wasn’t far off—but neither was the end of their arrangement. She ran her thumb over the band of the engagement ring.

Surely it wouldn’t be the end, though. Not really. Even if they were no longer engaged, even if she gave back the ring and they were just… them. The last few days had been more real between them than anything that had come before, even if it had taken a lie to get them there.

His brow furrowed, his gray-blue eyes turning serious behind his glasses. “What are you thinking about?”

“You should get out there,” she whispered.

Another soft tug on her belt loop. “Alright, Luna. Keep your secrets. For now.” He pressed a kiss to the underside of her jaw and disappeared down the hall towards the soundstage.

Kat checked her watch. Two minutes. She settled on the couch to watch the live stream, unexpected nerves twisting her stomach.

“When’s the wedding?”

Kat startled at the sound of the PA’s voice. She’d forgotten she was there. The young woman tilted her chin towards the massive diamond sparkling on Kat’s finger and those nerves morphed into embarrassment.

“We haven’t set a date yet,” Kat demurred.

The PA held up the pad of sticky notes with a shy smile. “Get you anything?”

“No, thank you. I’m good.”

The PA nodded and headed for the door, but she hesitated at the threshold, turning back to Kat. “You’re the girl from ‘Weathering the Storm,’ aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re the one they’re singing about. ‘The girl with thunderstorm eyes and a sunshine smile’—that’s you, right?”

Was she? What had Beckett said the other night about trying to write back to her? He’d only managed to write one song. Was ‘Weathering the Storm’ it? There had been so much to talk about, she hadn’t thought to ask.

And that particular song had been released during her ‘I’m not paying attention to anything Midnight Storm does out of self-preservation’ phase. It’s not that she’d entirely ignored the handful of singles the band had dropped as the last gasps of their first attempt to reunite, mere months after they’d broken up, but knowing they were doing it without her, that there was a part of their story—of Beckett’s story—that didn’t include her, had been too hard, even if she had been the one to walk away. In her determination to pretend it didn’t matter to her, had she missed the one thing that would have mattered more than anything?

“I—I’m not sure,” she said.

The PA smiled. “It’s such an underrated song. Most people don’t know it’s the only one Beckett has a songwriting credit on.” She laughed self-consciously. “Not that I need to tell you that. I’m sure you already know.”

Just then the live feed cut to the kitchen, the five members of Midnight Storm arranged around a too-small kitchen counter next to the balding morning show host, a chyron on the screen proclaiming, “Baking up a storm with Midnight Storm.” At the center of the group, Beckett stared down the camera as Logan and the host chatted through Jo’s talking points about Meals for Missouri. Even through the camera, it felt like he was looking right at her, his smoldering stare no less incendiary through a screen.

And she knew.

She fumbled for her phone, typing in the name of the song and popping in one ear bud. It was Zach’s voice crooning in her ear, but the words were all Beckett. They weren’t perfect, but she heard him in every line, and when the rest of the group joined in on the chorus, she could hear the roughness of Beckett’s baritone, how he poured himself into each word.

The lyrics were clumsy, telling the story of the woman he saw when he closed his eyes. She was glad she hadn’t heard this song when it was released. She wouldn’t have understood all the things he hadn’t found a way to say, how even this sliver of vulnerability had been challenging for him. She wouldn’t have heard the longing behind the chorus, the apology in the lingering description of her laugh, the resignation.