Page 1 of The Pucking Arrangement

Chapter1

Mathematical Rubber Bands

Erin

Lincoln Center hums with pre-performance anticipation, the kind of electricity that makes my skin buzz. The newly renovated lobby of David Geffen Hall gleams under soft golden light, its contemporary design details catching the afternoon sun pouring through towering floor-to-ceiling windows. I come here whenever I can—for gigs like these, youth orchestra performances, and the concerts, of course. The acoustics in the revamped hall are otherworldly, especially in the upper levels where the sound seems to hang in the air.

But today isn’t about me or my need for a career breakthrough. It’s about introducing tiny humans to the magic of music—and giving their exhausted parents a break. The polished wood floors reflect scattered patches of sunlight, giving the space an almost magical quality, despite the current soundtrack of squealing children and frantic grown-ups trying to keep them in line.

I adjust my cello between my knees, centering it comfortably. Young People’s Concerts might not be Carnegie Hall, but they pay the rent and occasionally produce a future virtuoso. Plus, explaining complex musical concepts to sugar-high seven-year-olds keeps me humble.

Win-win.

“Can I touch it?”

The soft voice draws my attention downward. A tiny blonde angel stands before me, staring at my cello with huge, round blue eyes. She can’t be older than six, her delicate features framed by wild curls escaping from what was probably a braid at some point this morning.

“The cello?” I smile, lowering the instrument closer to her eye level. “Of course. Want to hear how it sounds?”

She nods, solemn as a judge, then reaches out to brush her small fingers across the strings. The resulting vibration makes her jump, then dissolve into giggles. “It tickles!”

“That’s the vibration,” I explain, plucking a simple pizzicato note. “The strings are like...giant rubber bands. But fancier.”

Her face lights up with pure joy. “Like musical rubber bands? Papa says music is kind of like math you can hear.”

“Your papa sounds smart.” I shift the cello and guide her tiny fingers to the fingerboard. “Here, try plucking this string right here.”

She produces a surprisingly clean note, her mouth dropping open in delight. “I did it! Papa, look!”

“Amneris!”

The deep voice slices through the crowd, and holy mother of?—

My brain short-circuits.

Because striding toward us is six-foot-four of pure masculinity wrapped in a bespoke charcoal suit. As big as my brother Liam, only more devastating. To call him gorgeous would be an understatement. Broad shoulders that block out the sun. Dark eyes sharp enough to cut glass. And his thighs. Dear God, those thighs. The kind of powerful muscles that come from years of professional athletics, not casual gym sessions. This is the kind of man who probably makes women forget their own names just by looking at them.

Lord knows I’m having trouble remembering mine right now… Instead, my mind spirals into completely inappropriate territory. Like wondering if he’d let me?—

Nope. Stop right there.

My ovaries really didn’t need this imagery today.

And then his scowl registers, and my stomach does a complicated flip.

“I was just showing her the cello,” I blurt out, as if I need to justify myself, gesturing to where his daughter—Amneris? Like the Egyptian princess?—is happily strumming away. “She’s got a natural sense for rhythm.”

“She also has a natural sense for wandering off.” His accent is Russian, his tone clipped, and why is that so hot? “Amnushka, we do not bother the musicians.”

“But, Papa, look!” She plucks another string with a triumphant grin. “It’s like mathematical rubber bands!”

His stern expression softens as he looks down at her, and oh no.Oh no.That right there should come with a warning label. Hot dad plus obvious soft spot for his kid? That’s how women end up with a ring on their finger, arranging for carpools while their hard-earned diplomas gather dust in a drawer.

Then his gaze shifts back to me, assessing.

“I know you,” he drawls, his dark eyes narrowing. “O’Connor’s little sister.”

Wait. What?

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