Page 111 of The Pucking Arrangement

Erin

Morning light spills across my sheets, warm and golden, but it does nothing to quiet the restless energy thrumming beneath my skin.

Dmitri’s been gone since Monday, and I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since.

And today, I’ll see him.

My stomach flips, a ridiculous, giddy thing I refuse to acknowledge. I barely slept last night, tossing and turning despite my exhaustion, waking up way too early like a kid on Christmas morning. Now I’m lying here, staring at the ceiling, pulse skittering at the mere thought of being near him again.

I roll onto my side, clutching my pillow, but it’s useless. The anticipation is sharp, electric, winding tighter with every passing minute.

Five days was both nothing and an eternity.

And today, the waiting is over.

But before I let myself get lost in the thought of Dmitri—his hands, his mouth, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world—I need to remember why my stomach isn’t just flipping with excitement.

I need to tell him.

Because everything changed on Wednesday, when Luka decided to drop a nuke in the middle of our recording session.

We’d been playing “Thunderstruck” in Dmitri’s garden, the storm clouds rolling in like a special effects team had been hired for the shoot. Wind whipped through the cherry blossoms, scattering petals over the dark water of the pool. Thunder cracked in the distance, an ominous drumroll beneath the grinding wail of our cellos.

I was lost in it, high on the music, bow slashing across the strings, pulling raw electricity from the humid air. My hair stuck to my damp skin, curls wild from the rising storm, fingers flying over the fingerboard in a blur of harmonics and growling double stops.

Luka, ever the showman, was in his element, standing to play, head bobbing with the violent rhythm, his entire body moving with the force of the music. His bow slammed against the strings in percussive strikes, mirroring the thunder rumbling overhead, both of us transformed, caught in the storm.

And then, just as the first fat raindrops started to fall, while our videographer frantically covered his equipment, Luka casually set my entire world on fire.

“Speaking of thunder,” he mused, grinning and running a hand through his now rain-dampened hair, “I spoke to Marko Vucic. You know, the Dubrovnik Summer Festival director? He’s a good friend.”

I barely heard him over the blood rushing in my ears.

“What?”

But Luka didn’t notice my world tilting, didn’t see my chest tightening as he kept talking, too smug, too casual, like this was just another gig.

“They want us for opening night.”

Us?

Opening night.

Dubrovnik Summer Festival.

My pulse kicked into a full gallop.

A festival etched into the ancient stone of the city itself—centuries-old walls transformed into grand stages, orchestras playing under the stars, the Adriatic whispering in the background, music spilling through marble-paved streets.

The entire city turning into a living symphony. A masterpiece of sound and spectacle, where only the world’s best musicians are invited to perform.

And they invitedme.

Granted, with Luka. But still—an opportunity of a lifetime.

“Three concerts. Two weeks in July.” Luka shrugged, like performing at one of the most prestigious festivals in the world was just another summer plan. “Masterclasses with the top conservatory students from across the Balkans. Private events. Then nights on the beach—music, bonfires, parties with Europe’s A-list.” His dimples flashed, eyes gleaming. He leaned in, continuing to paint the picture.

“Imagine it,draga. Playing on the shore at sunset, the city towers glowing behind us, the waves our rhythm section. Viral videos, millions of views. Musical directors from Vienna, Berlin, London coming to see us. Not just watching but wanting us. Booking us.”

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