Page 56 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Neue Galerie maybe?” I squeak. “They have good Austrian pastries Ris might like.”

“Pastries!” Ris bounces. “Can we go, Papa? Please?”

His eyes find mine over Ris’s head, dark and intent. “Da.We go.” Then, softer, meant just for me, “Solnyshkoknows best, yes?”

The endearment slides through me like honey, warm and dangerous. I busy myself with gathering our things, pretending my cheeks aren’t burning.

“Ready?” he asks, and when I look up, he’s watching me with that same intensity from this morning, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me.

“Almost.” I adjust Ris’s scarf, grateful for the distraction. “There. Now we’re?—”

His hand catches mine as I straighten, just for a moment. Just long enough to set every nerve ending on fire.

“Spasibo,” he murmurs in Russian, then switches back to English. “For being good with her.”

The tenderness in his voice undoes me completely.

“Always,” I manage, and his fingers tighten briefly before letting go.

As we head for the car, I catch him watching me again, his expression soft around the edges in a way that makes my heart stumble.

This day isn’t just going to kill me.

It’s going to absolutely wreck me.

Chapter12

Attalus II, the Perfect Wingman

Dmitri

Manhattan gleams under the midday sun, all slick glass and cold steel, too polished to touch. The Range Rover glides down Park Avenue, each stoplight ticking away the seconds.

Beside me, Erin is a bundle of restless energy, half turned in her seat, tossing out directions.

“Right here—no, next one.” She points, excitement slipping into her voice. “The white building with the green awning.”

I ease the car up to the curb in front of a fortress of old money—limestone facade, gleaming brass fixtures, and a doorman in pristine white gloves. Erin lets out a low whistle, tilting her head back to take it all in.

“Wow.” A half smile tugs at her lips. “Imagine living here.”

There’s something wistful in her tone, like she’s only half joking.

“You’d like that?”

She huffs a soft laugh. “Oh yeah. When I’m a real grown-up musician? Sign me up.”

The elevator swallows us up in a hush of polished steel, its mirrored walls reflecting back the space between us. We don’t touch, but I can feel her heat and presence and quiet anticipation.

Twelfth floor, the doors slide open.

A distinguished-looking man greets us, all Brooks Brothers and well-practiced charm. “Ah, Miss O’Connor! Thank you for coming so quickly, we have an afternoon engagement and?—”

His words trail off the second he looks past Erin and lands on me.

He freezes. Blinks. Then does a double take. A triple take. His entire composure unravels in real time.

“Holy—Jack! JACK! Get out here now!”

---