"Maybe," she tentatively promises, and in an instant, the glass is once again empty and she's swaying to her feet, leaving it behind on the coffee table and wiping the corner of her mouth with her fingertips. The stereo in the cabinet rests only a few feet away, and she squints at her small collection of music until she finds what she's looking for, putting it in and selecting the right track.

"But I am not singing that," Beckett declares, as the first few strains of a harmonica fill the room and Steven Tyler starts rasping from the speakers. Reflexively, her hips start swaying back and forth to the slower beat, head tilted to listen to the tune, and then she closes her eyes, almost forgetting her company entirely as she begins to softly sing along with the chorus.