Page 72 of The Pucking Arrangement

I steady her automatically, my arms moving on instinct, but fuck if it doesn’t take everything in me to drag my focus away from Erin.

Away from how she’s still breathing too fast.

Away from how that oversized shirt—hanging loose, exposing one bare shoulder—somehow makes her look even more tempting.

I force my mind back under control.

“Early surprise, Amnushka.” I swing her up, pressing a kiss to her wild curls, trying to ground myself in the familiar. “Did you behave for Erin?”

“Yes! She helped me practice, and I can play a whole scale now, and—” She wiggles until I set her down. “Come watch!”

She grabs Erin’s hand and tugs her toward the music room.

Mine.The thought is immediate, unbidden.

Erin follows, but at the doorway, she hesitates. Glances back.

Our eyes lock.

And there it is.

The fire. The heat she’s scared of but refuses to extinguish.

It ignites something reckless in me, something that wants to pin her right there, let her feel what she does to me. What she’s been doing to me since I saw her at the Philharmonic a few weeks ago.

“Coming, Papa?” Ris’s voice snaps me back, but Erin is still watching me, a knowing gleam in her eyes.

I drag in a slow, steadying breath. “One minute, Amnushka.”

Erin’s lips curve. A barely there smile, but devastating nonetheless. Just enough to tell me she knows exactly what I need a minute to recover from.

“Take your time,” she calls over her shoulder. “We’ll be here. Practicing.”

The way she says it—practicing—drips with undertones. I plant my hands on the counter, gripping hard enough that the granite creaks beneath my fingers.

I force myself to move, trailing them down the hall toward the music room. Not because I’ve regained control, but because I need to see.

When I step inside, Ris is perched on a chair, her cello positioned exactly as Erin taught her. She sits with fierce concentration, tiny fingers stretching carefully over the strings, bow poised, ready to play.

“Watch this, Papa!” Ris beams, lifting her wrist before returning to position. Something sparkles in the light. “Erin gave me a special musician bracelet for good luck!”

I glance down. The bracelet catches the glow from the overhead lights—delicate silver, with tiny charms and music notes dangling from it.

A trinket. Simple. Inexpensive. But it might as well be the world, the way my daughter looks at it.

“It’s my cello charm,” Ris explains importantly. “Musicians have special charms.”

“For her first real lesson,” Erin murmurs, watching her with quiet warmth. “I thought she deserved something to mark the occasion.”

Something tightens in my chest at the gesture, this small kindness that means everything to my daughter.

Ris straightens, gripping her bow. “Now watch!”

And then—sound.

The scale wobbles, her small bow arm trembling slightly, but it’s there. Forming. Taking shape beneath her fingers.

I should be watching her. I should be swelling with pride at my daughter’s hard work.

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