Page 1

Chapter 1

Mathematical Rubber Bands

Erin

L incoln Center hums with pre-performance anticipation, the kind of electricity that makes my skin buzz. The newly renovated lobby of David Geffen Hall gleams under soft golden light, its contemporary design details catching the afternoon sun pouring through towering floor-to-ceiling windows. I come here whenever I can—for gigs like these, youth orchestra performances, and the concerts, of course. The acoustics in the revamped hall are otherworldly, especially in the upper levels where the sound seems to hang in the air.

But today isn’t about me or my need for a career breakthrough. It’s about introducing tiny humans to the magic of music—and giving their exhausted parents a break. The polished wood floors reflect scattered patches of sunlight, giving the space an almost magical quality, despite the current soundtrack of squealing children and frantic grown-ups trying to keep them in line.

I adjust my cello between my knees, centering it comfortably. Young People’s Concerts might not be Carnegie Hall, but they pay the rent and occasionally produce a future virtuoso. Plus, explaining complex musical concepts to sugar-high seven-year-olds keeps me humble.

Win-win.

“Can I touch it?”

The soft voice draws my attention downward. A tiny blonde angel stands before me, staring at my cello with huge, round blue eyes. She can’t be older than six, her delicate features framed by wild curls escaping from what was probably a braid at some point this morning.

“The cello?” I smile, lowering the instrument closer to her eye level. “Of course. Want to hear how it sounds?”

She nods, solemn as a judge, then reaches out to brush her small fingers across the strings. The resulting vibration makes her jump, then dissolve into giggles. “It tickles!”

“That’s the vibration,” I explain, plucking a simple pizzicato note. “The strings are like...giant rubber bands. But fancier.”

Her face lights up with pure joy. “Like musical rubber bands? Papa says music is kind of like math you can hear.”

“Your papa sounds smart.” I shift the cello and guide her tiny fingers to the fingerboard. “Here, try plucking this string right here.”

She produces a surprisingly clean note, her mouth dropping open in delight. “I did it! Papa, look!”

“Amneris!”

The deep voice slices through the crowd, and holy mother of?—

My brain short-circuits.

Because striding toward us is six-foot-four of pure masculinity wrapped in a bespoke charcoal suit. As big as my brother Liam, only more devastating. To call him gorgeous would be an understatement. Broad shoulders that block out the sun. Dark eyes sharp enough to cut glass. And his thighs. Dear God, those thighs. The kind of powerful muscles that come from years of professional athletics, not casual gym sessions. This is the kind of man who probably makes women forget their own names just by looking at them.

Lord knows I’m having trouble remembering mine right now… Instead, my mind spirals into completely inappropriate territory. Like wondering if he’d let me?—

Nope. Stop right there.

My ovaries really didn’t need this imagery today.

And then his scowl registers, and my stomach does a complicated flip.

“I was just showing her the cello,” I blurt out, as if I need to justify myself, gesturing to where his daughter—Amneris? Like the Egyptian princess?—is happily strumming away. “She’s got a natural sense for rhythm.”

“She also has a natural sense for wandering off.” His accent is Russian, his tone clipped, and why is that so hot? “Amnushka, we do not bother the musicians.”

“But, Papa, look!” She plucks another string with a triumphant grin. “It’s like mathematical rubber bands!”

His stern expression softens as he looks down at her, and oh no. Oh no. That right there should come with a warning label. Hot dad plus obvious soft spot for his kid? That’s how women end up with a ring on their finger, arranging for carpools while their hard-earned diplomas gather dust in a drawer.

Then his gaze shifts back to me, assessing.

“I know you,” he drawls, his dark eyes narrowing. “O’Connor’s little sister.”

Wait. What?

Recognition clicks, and suddenly I can’t breathe for an entirely different reason.

“You look different off the ice.”

Brilliant, Erin. Truly inspired. I mentally smack myself because my brain has finally caught up to my mouth, and, holy hell, Dmitri Sokolov is standing right in front of me. Star defenseman. My brother’s teammate. The single dad who sends forwards flying into the boards like they’re stuffed animals.

The same Dmitri Sokolov who is now looking at me like he might want to have me for dessert.

“You thought I was taller?” His mouth curves into a cocky smirk I’d very much like to lick off his face.

Jesus, woman. Get it together.

“Well,” I start, straightening my spine, because if we’re playing this game, I’m not losing. “The skates and pads do make you guys look kind of...big.”

Ohmygawd. Nope. Abort. Abort.

“That so?” His voice drops, rich and velvety, sliding over my skin like a slow, deliberate caress, melting every last shred of rational thought.

I scramble for a way to backpedal. “That’s not—I mean?—”

He takes a slow step forward, and suddenly he’s too close, his massive frame eclipsing mine, his heat seeping into my skin. My breath catches as his gaze drops, slow and probing, dragging over me.

“Kind of big, hmm?” His voice is pure sin now, dark and teasing. “Maybe you should do some independent research. Just to be sure.”

My pulse riots. My mind goes straight to filthy places, and judging by the way his eyes gleam, he’s already there.

Before I can come up with a single coherent thought, Amneris wriggles free from his grasp and makes a beeline for my cello, completely oblivious to the fact that her father is standing in front of me, practically undressing me with his stare.

An embarrassed laugh escapes me, and I grasp onto the moment like a lifeline. “She’s welcome to keep exploring if she wants.”

Dmitri hums, gaze flicking between me and his daughter. “That’s generous of you.” His lips twitch. “She already thinks she’s the conductor of the Philharmonic,” he mutters, but there’s a softness in his voice that makes my chest tight in ways it absolutely shouldn’t.

For one reckless moment, I let myself imagine what if. Then I quickly shut that thought down because, hell no. That’s a dangerous path. I definitely don’t need a rugged hockey player daddy complicating my life, no matter how irresistibly tempting he looks in that suit. Or how big he is.

Damn. It feels like my mind just can’t help wandering into filthy territory.

But then his gaze shifts back to me, and my resolve wobbles. His jaw tightens, his tone laced with reprimand. “You should not encourage children to touch expensive instruments.”

How exactly might he choose to punish me for my infraction?

Shit, Erin, will you cut it out?

“Actually, that’s literally why I’m here.” I straighten bravely and gesture toward the Young People’s Concert banner overhead. “Teaching kids about music? Kind of the whole point.” I lower my voice conspiratorially. “And by the way, this cello isn’t mine. The Philharmonic loans us old instruments for events like these.”

“Teaching is fine,” he allows, but there’s a muscle ticking in his jaw, like he’s indulging me—for now. Like he finds my defiance amusing, but only because he knows exactly who’s in charge. “Unsupervised access to?—”

“Oh, come on,” I cut him off, arching a brow, deliberately pushing. “She weighs forty pounds soaking wet. Pretty sure she’s not about to sprint off with a full-sized cello.”

Something flickers in his dark eyes—annoyance, maybe, but there’s a glint of something else. Something predatory. Like he enjoys the fight. Like he enjoys me pushing back because he’s already thinking about all the ways he could make me submit.

Then he takes a slow step closer, and the air between us shifts, charged with something hot and unspoken. My skin prickles, heat licking at my spine, and I roll my sleeves back, desperate for any kind of relief. But it only makes things worse because now his gaze drops, lingering on my exposed forearms, tracking every subtle movement like he’s memorizing me.

And the way he looks at me?

Like he’s already decided exactly how this ends. My skin flushes and my brain spirals into very, very inappropriate places.

Like what those massive hands would feel like dragging up my thighs.

Or what else about him might be equally...impressive.

Focus, woman. Focus.

“You are very,” his voice drops an octave, rich and dark, vibrating through me like the low hum of a string section, “confident.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Perhaps.” His mouth curves, slow and sinful. His gaze flicks up, tracing the curve of my shoulders, the slope of my neck, like he’s savoring every inch. “Or perhaps you simply need someone to?—”

“Papa!”

Amneris tugs on his sleeve, yanking us both back to reality. “Can I learn to play the cello? Please? I’ll practice every day!”

The moment shatters, and I want to scream in frustration.

Someone to what, Dmitri?

Worship me? Wreck me? Pin me against the nearest wall and make me forget my own name?

I need help. I need Jesus. I need a cold shower, a change of underwear, and possibly an exorcism.

Dmitri blinks, like he’s just waking up from something he wasn’t supposed to be lost in. He takes a step back, the shift so abrupt, it leaves me dizzy. The stern father mask slides into place so fast, it’s almost like the last thirty seconds never happened.

“We will discuss it later,” he says firmly, taking her small hand in his. “Now we must find our seats.”

He pauses, though, looking back at me. His dark gaze softens just a fraction. “You are coming to the game tonight? It’s the last one before playoffs.”

The question catches me off guard. “I...what?”

“The game. Against the Kings.” His accent wraps around the words carefully, and I can’t tell if he’s nervous or just deliberate. “Your brother mentioned you have not been to many games recently.”

“Liam talks about me with you?” I blink, trying to gain some time to sort out my whirling thoughts.

“He mentioned you are finishing school. Music performance.” A slight smile tugs at his lips. “Very different from hockey.”

“Not as different as you’d think,” I say, testing his reaction. “Both require practice, dedication, perfect timing?—”

“Then come see our perfect timing tonight.” It’s not a question. More like…an order.

I swallow, my pulse skittering. What the hell is happening right now?

I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear, needing something to do with my hands. “I haven’t really decided?—”

“Come.” His tone is light, but his eyes—his eyes are anything but. Dark, steady, holding me in place. “Captain will like to see you in the family box.”

Right. My brother. Of course that’s why he’s asking. Not because he wants to see me again or anything.

Not because of the way his gaze keeps finding mine, like he’s waiting for something.

Not because he wants me.

Right?

“Papa!” Amneris tugs at his hand, more insistent now. “We’re going to be late!”

Dmitri straightens, the slow-rolling storm in his eyes flaring hot for a split second before he buries it beneath a mask of indifference.

“Thank you for your…patience, Miss O’Connor.” His voice is measured, but there’s restraint beneath it

“It’s Erin,” I say quickly, but he’s already turning, guiding Amneris through the crowd.

And then, just before he disappears, he looks back.

The air between us crackles. His gaze drops, lingers, sears—a silent promise.

My breath catches.

He smirks, just the barest twitch of his lips, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. Then he turns away, leaving me flushed and wrecked.

Oh yeah, Dmitri Sokolov is trouble. The best kind of trouble.

If I was going there.

Which I’m definitely not.