Page 97 of The Pucking Arrangement

Five nights. That’s all it took for Erin O’Connor to completely undo me.

Five perfect mornings waking up with her wrapped around me, all sleepy sighs and soft moans, her copper hair tangled in my sheets. Five days of stolen kisses in the kitchen before Ris woke up, of watching her move through my house like she belonged there. Five afternoons of her playing her cello wearing my shirt, lost in her music while the sun bathed her in gold—so fucking beautiful it hurt to look at her.

Five nights of feeling her fall apart beneath me, of hearing her beg in that breathless, needy voice that makes my blood run hot and my control snap like a goddamn twig.

And now?

Now I’m hurtling toward Tampa while some smug, over-groomed European motherfucker wraps himself around my girl in a loft downtown.

My grip tightens around my phone.

Luka Havran’s Instagram story.

The exposed brick. The moody lighting. The sleek grand piano in the background. And right in the center—Erin, perched on a stool, her bow poised above the strings, a soft smile on her lips.

And him.

Standing too close. Leaning in too much. His perfectly styled head bent toward her shoulder as he “adjusts her sheet music.”

I snort, jaw flexing. Right. Because that definitely requires him to practically drape himself over her, his arm brushing hers, his breath practically in her ear.

Fucker.

My entire body is tight with the need to do something. To turn this plane around. To rip that sheet music out of his hands and remind him exactly who she belongs to.

Because shedoesbelong to me.

Erin might not know it yet, but I fucking do.

The last few days flash through my mind—the way she’d slip into my room after Ris was asleep, whispering my name in the dark. The way she’d wake me up, all warm skin and wicked hands, a mischievous little grin on her lips before she made me lose my goddamn mind. The way she fit, curled against me, like she was made to be there.

God, Ris.

She’s already asking when Erin can move in permanently. Smart kid. She wants exactly what I want.

To keep her.

To make her ours.

Instead I’m here, thousands of miles away, while some flashy, pretty motherfucker gets to spend his day cozying up to my woman.

I exhale sharply, forcing my grip to loosen before I actually snap my phone in half.

Erin’s mine.

She just doesn’t know it yet.

Another notification pops up. Another story. This time it’s Luka demonstrating proper bow technique, his chest pressed against Erin’s back.

I drag a hand over my playoff beard—ten days of growth making me look more caveman than professional athlete—and seriously contemplate how many years I’d serve for murdering someone with their own cello.

“Still stalking your girl’s socials?” Finn drops into the seat across the aisle, his dark beard coming in thick and full, because apparently being six-foot-two of pure muscle isn’t intimidating enough. “Those views are insane. Did you see their latest collab hit a million?”

I grunt, clicking my phone off. Two losses at home. Now we’re heading to Tampa for what could be elimination games, and all I can focus on is how Luka keeps finding excuses to touch Erin’s hands in every damn video.

Up front, Jessica flips through game footage with Coach Novak. Finn’s eyes drift that way.

“At least I’m close enough to stalk my girl’s socials,” I mutter, nodding toward Jessica. “Unlike some people who can’t even get within ten feet of their crush because Daddy Dearest is always right there.”

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