Page 146 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Papa’s sad when you’re not here.”

And all I can think is:Me too, sweet girl. Me too.

* * *

Three hours later, my phone’s insistent buzzing yanks me out of my own personal purgatory. I’ve accomplished exactly nothing since Dmitri left—besides staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of last night in agonizing, slow-motion detail.

[Luka]: Studio’s booked for 2pm. Can’t wait to hear your Brahms interpretation.

Reality slams into me. Right. The recording session. Dubrovnik. The dream I’m supposed to be thrilled about.

[Me]: Will see you there.

I force myself into the shower, cranking the water hot enough to scald, hoping it’ll burn away the mess of emotions clinging to me like smoke. But no amount of heat can erase the image of Ris’s tear-streaked face. Or the way Dmitri stood in the doorway this morning, rigid and silent, his jaw locked so tightly I thought it might shatter. The way he let me leave without a single word to stop me.

By the time I get to the studio in Chelsea, I’m ten minutes late and feeling about as eager as someone walking into a firing squad.

The space is sleek and modern—glass walls, natural light, perfect acoustics. Luka is already there, tuning his cello, his expression brightening the moment I step inside. His hair is artfully mussed in that way that probably takes twenty minutes in front of a mirror, his slim-cut jeans and designer shirt exuding effortless European cool.

Normally, I’d appreciate the aesthetic. Today, I just find myself cataloging all the ways he isn’t Dmitri.

“There she is, my beautiful duet partner!” Luka stands, arms wide in greeting. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned me.”

His voice is smooth and sophisticated—nothing like the rough edges of Dmitri’s Russian growl.

“Traffic,” I lie, setting up my music stand. “You know how it is.”

“Of course.” His gaze flicks over me, assessing. “You look different today.”

Something in his tone makes my spine stiffen. “Different how?”

“Like you’ve been crying,” he says simply, no judgment, just quiet observation. Then, with a knowing tilt of his head, “Boyfriend troubles? The hockey player?”

My fingers go rigid around my bow. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Luka chuckles, rich and amused. “Please,draga, I have eyes. The way he looked at you that night at Le Poisson Rouge? Like he wanted to drag you offstage and ruin you.” He lifts an eyebrow. “And your friend Sophie? Not subtle when it comes to dropping hints about your…entanglement.”

Heat crawls up my neck. I busy myself with rosining my bow, pretending I don’t feel the weight of his scrutiny. “Can we just play?”

Luka doesn’t press. He simply nods, his expression shifting to something more serious. “Brahms first? Or shall we warm up with something lighter?”

We begin, and for the next hour, the world outside ceases to exist.

Whatever else Luka might be, he’s a phenomenal cellist. Our instruments slip into conversation, weaving a language that doesn’t require words. The Brahms sonata flows between us, every note familiar, yet new. His interpretation bends to mine like he can anticipate my every thought.

Even with my heart in pieces, the music still finds me. Still heals me—if only for a little while.

I close my eyes during the adagio, surrendering to the aching beauty of it, letting the melody take the raw edges of my pain and transform them into something bearable.

And when the final note fades into silence, the space it leaves behind feels almost sacred.

“That,” Luka says softly, “was magical.”

I open my eyes to find him watching me, his gaze steady and intense. The kind of look that makes unease unfurl inside me.

“You play with your whole heart, Erin.” He sets his bow down, his voice gentle. “I’ve never met anyone who gives themselves so completely to the music.”

I swallow against the knot in my throat. I used to love that about myself—how I could lose myself in the music, how it could make sense of things even when nothing else did. But right now, it just feels like proof of how easily I unravel.

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