Page 79 of The Pucking Arrangement

Her fingers freeze midair, her breath hitching just slightly. “The green room’s through there,” she says, voice quieter now. Almost hesitant. “I need to change strings, tune, warm up...”

“I’ll help!” Ris bounces beside us, curls flying. “Can I help, Erin? Please?”

“Actually,” Luka cuts in smoothly, stepping forward, “I could use an assistant too. Want to help me organize my sheet music while Erin gets ready?”

Ris looks torn, glancing between them, then at me.

Erin laughs, patting Ris’s shoulder before glancing at me for permission. I nod, and she smiles. “Go with Luka. I’m boring when I warm up—just scales and meditation.”

I follow her to the green room, setting her cello case carefully on the stand. The space is small and intimate, lit only by a warm lamp in the corner.

When I turn, she’s already close. Close enough that I can hear the unsteady rhythm of her breath. See the way her pupils expand, lit with pre-show nerves.

“The balcony really does have the best view,” she murmurs. “And the acoustics are incredible. You’ll be able to hear every note.”

Her perfume wraps around me, warm and heady, and fuck, I want to drag my knuckles down her arm, feel the tremor I know is there. But now is not the time.

Now all I have to do…is wait until we get home.

“Enjoy the show,” she whispers, then turns to her instrument, leaving behind the phantom scent of vanilla and temptation.

I step out of the room to retrieve Ris and find our seats. But before I do that—just for research purposes, obviously—I pull out my phone and check exactly how many followers this Luka asshole has.

* * *

The balcony hums with anticipation, a sea of murmured conversations and the occasional clink of crystal against polished wood. We weave through the crowd, finding our seats near the front.

Liam spots us first, his arm draped around Sophie, who leans comfortably into him. They look effortlessly at ease—Liam in a crisp, tailored jacket, Sophie shimmering in sequins that catch the dim light like scattered stars.

“Uncle Liam!” Ris stage-whispers, practically vibrating with excitement. “Did you see? Erin’s dress matches mine!”

Liam glances at her, then at Erin, his expression unreadable. “Very fancy,” he concedes, smiling and ruffling her hair. But his gaze doesn’t stay on Ris.

It stays on me.

Watching me watch her.

“Excited for the show?” he asks, voice smooth. Too smooth.

If I didn’t know him like the back of my hand, I might miss the razor-sharp tension beneath his words, the careful edge honed just for me.

I won’t touch her.

The promise I made him echoes in my head. The promise I broke today.

I grunt something noncommittal, tearing my gaze away, pretending to study the program.

It’s a lost cause.

Below, Erin steps onto the stage, cello in hand, and my entire body locks up. She moves with the same quiet confidence I’ve seen before, but here—under the glow of the lights, the weight of the audience’s attention pressing in—she is transcendent.

Regal. Untouchable.Devastating.

She lowers herself into the chair with a grace that makes my pulse hammer, the silk of her dress cascading like liquid fire around her legs. And that fucking slit parts as she shifts, unveiling a stretch of smooth, toned thigh, a flash of muscle flexing beneath flawless skin.

My lungs forget how to work.

Then my gaze drops lower, to those fucking heels.

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