Page 114 of The Pucking Arrangement

Because I can’t sleep in this perfectly nice guest room when I’ve gotten used to his bed—his warmth, his scent, the way he wraps himself around me like I belong there?

Jesus Christ in heaven.

Three weeks ago, my biggest dilemma was whether to post Bach or Vivaldi for my next video. Now I’m contemplating life-altering decisions because a six-year-old’s face lights up when I help her with her cello practice.

Heavy footsteps snap me out of my feminist existential crisis. A soft knock, then Dmitri’s voice that slides over me like a slow pull of whiskey—dark, smooth, and entirely too intoxicating.

“Erin?”

Don’t do it, my brain warns. Pretend to be asleep. Pretend you have boundaries. Pretend you’re not already melting just from the sound of him.

“Come in,” I say instead.

The door swings open, and—holy hell. All my resolve promptly dissipates. Especially the feminist-fueled intentions urging me to stay the course and not risk derailing my entire future over a stupidly hot, stupidly shirtless hockey player.

Dmitri fills the doorway like some ancient Slavic God of temptation, all broad shoulders and sleep-mussed hair, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung sweats that cling to his hips in a way that should be illegal. His playoff beard is thicker now, wilder. He looks untamed.

Pushkin would have written odes to him.

Tolstoy would have made him the tragic hero of a thousand-page epic.

And I—who five minutes ago was all about professional goals and independence—am currently contemplating the logistics of throwing myself at him headfirst.

“Hi,” I manage, my voice breathy, betraying me completely.

Dmitri leans against the doorframe, eyes dragging over me in a slow, deliberate sweep.

“Saw your ‘Thunderstruck’video.”

My stomach flips. “You did?”

“The whole team watched it on the plane.” His smirk is wicked, but there’s something possessive lurking beneath it. “Finn said you managed to make AC/DC sexy.” He tilts his head, gaze burning into mine. “Captain almost ripped his head off.”

“That was the idea.” I smile weakly, a live wire sparking under my skin.

I’ve learned a thing or two about social media by now. I know exactly why that video blew up—why it hit just right.

Luka and me, drenched in the storm light, our bows striking down like weapons, the rhythm sharp and relentless. The roar of “Thunderstruck” transformed by the savage force of two cellos pushed to their absolute limits.

The camera had caught everything.

The way Luka had stood, his body rocking with the violent tempo, bow arm slicing through the air like a conductor of chaos.

The way I had leaned into the storm, my fingers a blur over the strings, my hair wild, whipping around me as if the music itself had set the world on fire.

It was passion. It was power.

It was two musicians utterly transformed into primal animals.

And Dmitri had watched all of it.

The team had watched all of it.

I can see it now—my brother and the guys huddled around the screen, mouths open, eyes glued to the way my bow ripped across the strings. To the way Luka moved with me, feeding off my energy, matching me stroke for stroke, strike for strike.

Luka, grinning through the chaos.

Luka, standing too close.

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