Page 147 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Dubrovnik won’t know what hit them.”

Despite everything, a small ember of excitement sparks to life. I cling to it, desperate for something to hold onto. “It’s going to be epic, isn’t it?” My voice is quiet, but there’s longing in it. “Playing in those castles, with the sea right there…”

“Life-changing,” Luka agrees, his smile warm. “And after, the tour will open doors you can’t even imagine.”

I nod, trying to let that sink in, trying to summon the same exhilaration I felt when this opportunity first became real. But it keeps slipping through my fingers, dissolving beneath the weight pressing on my chest.

We take a short break, and Luka hands me a bottle of water from the mini-fridge.

“Ready for Mozart?” he asks, already adjusting his bow.

We play for another hour—Mozart, then Vivaldi, then a few improvisations that would normally leave me grinning. But by the time we stop, I feel wrung out. I’ve poured every last ounce of myself into the strings, and I still can’t quiet the ache inside me.

Luka watches me as we pack up, considering. “Dinner?”

I hesitate.

“I know a fantastic little place just around the corner. Best risotto outside of my grandmother’s kitchen.”

“I should probably?—”

“Just dinner,” he clarifies, reading my hesitation. His smile is soft. “You look like you could use a friend right now.”

The unexpected gentleness nearly undoes me. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

The restaurant is exactly as promised—tiny, intimate, the kind of place that practically hums with warmth. A candle flickers between us, casting a golden glow against the deep red of the wine already being poured.

Luka waits until we’ve ordered before speaking. “So,” he says, leaning back, “are we going to talk about what’s going on with you, or shall we pretend everything’s fine?”

I let out a breath, staring into my glass. “We pretend.”

“Yes?” He lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “Because you look like someone tore your heart out and stomped on it.”

“That’s…descriptive.”

“I’m a showman.” He shrugs. “Dramatic by nature.” His tone is light, but his eyes are serious. “Tell me.”

Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the weight of everything I haven’t said. Maybe I just need to hear it out loud to understand why it hurts so much.

“I think I fell in love with Dmitri,” I admit, the words barely above a whisper. “And I think he might have feelings for me too. But neither of us is saying anything, and now I’m just…leaving.”

Luka nods slowly, processing. “The festival.”

“And the tour.” I take a too-large sip of wine, letting it burn its way down. “It’s what I’ve been working toward. I want it so much. But?—”

“You know,” he interrupts me carefully, “there are planes that fly between Europe and the US. There’s even a direct flight from Dubrovnik to New York. It’s quite revolutionary, actually.”

I let out a small, humorless laugh. “It’s not just the distance. It’s…complicated.”

“His little girl.”

I nod, exhaling slowly. “She’s already lost her mother. I don’t want to come into her life only to disappear again. That’s not fair to her.” I hesitate, the words sticking in my throat.Though that’s exactly what I’ve done, isn’t it?

Luka tilts his head. “And what about what’s fair to you?” He pauses. “To him?”

I don’t have an answer for that. Or maybe I do, but I don’t want to say it. Because the truth is, if Dmitri really wanted me to stay, he would’ve said something. He would’ve given me a reason. Instead, he let me walk away.

Our food arrives, giving me a temporary reprieve. But Luka isn’t letting me off the hook.

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