Page 169 of The Pucking Arrangement

Chapter34

After the Final Note

Erin

Ikeep my head down, gathering my sheet music with shaky hands, shoving pages into my case like I can outrun the hollow ache spreading through my ribs. I need to get out of here. Now.

The adrenaline is still thrumming through my veins, the lingering high of the performance warring with the weight pressing down on my chest. I should feel triumphant. I do—I played my heart out, and the crowd felt it. I felt it.

But Dmitri?—

Dmitri just stood there.

He was watching me, the same way he did at the Philharmonic, like he wanted to devour me whole. Like I was the only thing in the world. Like I still belonged to him.

And yet—radio silence.

No stolen moments. No whispered words. No…stay.

So fine. Fine. He made his choice. And I’m making mine.

I fumble with my cello, my pulse thrumming with something close to anger now—at him, at myself, at the way my heart still aches even when I know better.

“Your performance was incredible.”

That voice—deep, steady, ruinous—rakes over my skin like fire.

I jump, fingers slipping, nearly dropping my folder. My whole body locks up. I take a steadying breath before turning, willing my face into careful, practiced neutrality.

Dmitri stands there, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

He’s just my brother’s teammate. My former boss.

The man I used to fuck.

Used to.

I swallow the lump in my throat and lift my chin.

“Thanks.” My smile is brittle. I’m barely holding it together. “Glad you liked it.”

The silence stretches between us, thick and unsteady, balancing on a knife’s edge. My brain scrambles for something else—anything else—to fill it. To keep it from swallowing me whole.

“You guys were incredible the other night,” I blurt, words rushing out too fast. “Hard to do justice to a game like that.”

It sounds rehearsed, like a line I’d throw at any of my brother’s teammates, like I haven’t spent weeks scraping my heart off the floor, like he hasn’t spent just as long pretending we never happened.

His gaze flickers, but he only hums in response. Then his eyes drop, tracking the cello at my side.

“New instrument?”

I nod, my fingers curling tighter around the strap. “Italian,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Bought it with my festival advance.”

Then, because I can’t seem to stop myself, I add, “And the money I made nannying. You were…very generous.”

The words come out wrong, laced with something I don’t have the strength to hide. Bitterness. Hurt. A razor-sharp edge.

His jaw tics. His eyes snap to mine, darkness flashing. For a second, I think he’s going to call me on it. Make me say what I really mean.

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