Page 58 of The Pucking Arrangement

By the time we step into Neue Galerie, the cello is safely stashed in the car. The café drips with Old World charm—gleaming wood paneling, polished brass fixtures, and velvet-upholstered chairs that feel like they belong in a Viennese salon rather than the heart of Manhattan. The scent of fresh coffee and warm pastries weaves through the air, rich and indulgent.

The pastry case alone could break a man.

“Papa, look at all the cakes!”

Ris presses her nose to the glass, her breath fogging the surface. A sharptskcomes from behind the counter—one of the waiters, dressed in a crisp white apron, looks at my daughter like she’s committed an actual crime.

I should tell her to stop. Something about manners, fingerprints, respect for glass surfaces. But the sheer joy on her face? Worth it.

“Lunch first,” I remind her, though my voice lacks conviction. Especially when I catch Erin eyeing the pastry case like she’s mentally drafting a ranked list of which desserts she’s willing to fight a stranger for.

We settle into a corner booth, and Ris bounces so much the leather groans beneath her, earning us another disapproving glance from a passing waiter.

“And this is before sugar,” Erin stage-whispers to me, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Imagine the power level after the Sachertorte.”

Her smile slams into me like a freight train.

Sunlight streams through the tall windows, catching the copper strands of her hair, making them glow. I stare too long. Think too much. Like how it would feel if I fisted her ponytail, how easily I could tip her head back just the way I wanted.

Der’mo.

“So,” she says, oblivious to my internal destruction, turning to Ris with effortless warmth. “Do you know your notes yet?”

“A B C D E F G!” Ris sings, still bouncing.

The waitersighsas he sets down a water glass with the kind of disdain usually reserved for people who demand substitutions.

“Perfect. That’s exactly where we’ll start.” Erin leans in, and the subtle scent of her shampoo—citrus and something warm, vanilla maybe—short-circuits my already fragile grip on composure. “You’ll need to practice every day, though. Even just for a little bit. Ten minutes. What do you say?”

“I will! I promise!”

“Thirty minutes is plenty for a lesson for now,” Erin adds, more to me than Ris, her fingers tapping out an unconscious rhythm on the table. The movement is effortless, natural. I track it, mesmerized. “Any longer, and it’s too much for small hands.”

A different waiter appears, this one somehow grumpier than the last, sliding our plates onto the table with the detached efficiency of a man who has been dealing with insufferable patrons all day.

But watching Erin cut Ris’s schnitzel into perfect, bite-sized pieces? Explaining how to hold utensils like she’s teaching bow technique? It ruins me in the best possible way.

“I can give her lessons while I’m with you,” she continues, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The movement is innocent. And yet, I feel it like a physical touch. “But for summer, you’ll want someone closer. The commute from the city would be too much for half-hour sessions. Besides…” She hesitates, then adds, “I might not even be here, if things go my way.”

If things go her way.

The casual reminder that her being with us is only temporary shouldn’t hit like a gut punch. But it does.

Three weeks. That’s all we have before she goes back to her real life—her bright future with no space for a serious relationship and the obligations that come with parenting a six-year-old.

“Papa?”

Ris’s voice tugs me back to reality. “Can we get the chocolate cake now?”

“After you finish lunch, Amnushka.”

“But Erin hasn’t even tried her soup yet!”

“She’s got you there.” Erin laughs, and the sound wraps around me like a caress. “I’ll hurry, okay?”

She leans over to grab the pepper, her arm grazing mine, and suddenly, my whole body is an inferno. Every nerve, every cell, tuned into that single, fleeting touch.

She inhales sharply. Not much. Just enough to tell me she’s unraveling too.

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