Page 78 of The Pucking Arrangement

It’s her turn to suffer.

* * *

Le Poisson Rouge glows like a jewel box—exposed brick, vintage chandeliers dripping amber light, polished tables crowded with patrons dressed in the effortless elegance of people who appreciate the arts.

It’s intimate but electric.

The low hum of conversation. The clinking of crystal against polished wood.

Ris tugs my hand, her eyes going wide as she spots a poster near the entrance, the elegant text gleaming under the dim light:

AN EVENING OF CLASSICAL CROSSOVER

Featuring:

Bach Cello Suite No. 3 in C Major – Erin O’Connor

Shostakovich Sonata in D Minor – Erin O’Connor

Special Guest Luka Havran performing his viral arrangement of “Creep”

Closing with Bach Double Cello Suite (Luka Havran & Erin O’Connor)

“You’re playing a duet?” The words come out sharp, more accusation than question.

Erin’s gaze flicks to mine.“Last minute addition,” she says, leading us backstage, voice laced with exhilaration. “Luka reached out after seeing my channel and?—”

“Erin!”

A smooth and confident voice cuts through the corridor, and a man steps from the shadows—tall, dark, and entirely too fucking pretty. Precisely styled, not a hair out of place. The kind of effortless, calculated charm that makes women swoon and men suspicious.

And when he smiles?

Fucking dimples.

Dimples.

“Luka!” Erin’s face lights up, and something inside me twists—hard. “So glad we’re doing this!”

“How could I resist?” His accent—Czech? Croatian?—wraps around the words as he takes her hand.Takes her fucking hand.“Your Bach interpretation is revolutionary. When I saw your Vivaldi cover last month, I knew we had to collaborate.”

I clear my throat, and Erin starts, like she forgot I was standing right here.

“Oh! Luka, this is Dmitri Sokolov and his daughter, Ris. I’m temporarily sitting for Ris until her grandmother arrives.”

Luka’s gaze sweeps over me, assessing and calculating.

“The famous hockey player?” His expression shifts smoothly. “I saw your crossover video. Brilliant concept.”

I grunt something noncommittal, barely listening, because I’m watching Erin, who’s still buzzing from adrenaline, glowing under the stage lights.

I already know she’ll glow even more when I have her beneath me later tonight.

A stagehand appears. “Fifteen minutes to warm-up!”

Erin moves instantly, reaching for her cello case, but I beat her to it.

“Where do you want it?”

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