Page 4

Chapter 4

All the Right Notes

Erin

I ’ve only been in this Village walk-up for two months—my first place after moving out of my parents’ Brooklyn apartment—but already it feels more like home than anywhere else. Maybe it’s the view of West 12th Street’s canopy of trees, or the fact that my neighbors are all artists who don’t complain when I practice the same passage forty-seven times in the same afternoon.

Between waiting to hear back from the Tanglewood Summer Music Festival and my few teaching hours at the Upper East Side girls’ school, the timing couldn’t have been worse for apartment hunting. But here I am, finally independent. Even if independence means checking my email every five minutes for news about the festival opportunity like it’s a dating app and I’m desperate.

I position my bow, trying— really trying —to focus on Shostakovich’s “Cello Concerto No. 1” for my graduation performance. The sharp, urgent opening notes demand my full attention, but my brain refuses to cooperate.

Sunlight spills through the window, warming my practice nook—really just a glorified corner of my studio apartment, where my music stand barely fits between my bed and the exposed brick wall that probably hasn’t been updated since the Carter administration. The acoustics are decent, but right now, every note feels off, my fingers sluggish, my bow arm tense.

I exhale slowly, resetting my grip. Focus.

But my mind? Yeah, it’s gone—completely hijacked by a certain hockey player with a voice that should come with a warning label for cardiac distress.

I scowl at my sheet music, willing myself to lock in. This piece isn’t just technically demanding—it’s relentless, all tension and drive, every note charged with something untamed and urgent. Exactly how I should be feeling about this moment.

And yet, all I can think about is Dmitri.

Which is not helpful, considering I’m supposed to be preparing for the recital, not replaying his celly and wink.

I grit my teeth, lift my bow, and try again.

My phone buzzes. Not Tanglewood. Just more YouTube notifications.

Classical Meets Hockey—amazing chemistry between players and music!

That defenseman’s celebration is fire!

The way he looks at the camera at 3:42 is pure poetry...

Anyone else rewind that goal celly like fifty times? Just me?

Marry me, Dmitri!

I lower my bow, heat crawling up my neck. I’d spent hours editing last night, trying to keep the video professional and educational. Focusing on the mathematical patterns in the gameplay, the rhythm of line changes, the orchestral quality of team dynamics. Anything to distract myself from obsessively checking my festival application status.

And definitely not because I needed an excuse to watch certain clips over and over. For professional purposes. Obviously.

Watching it once more, all I see is Dmitri. The power of his stride, the fluid lines of his movements, the way his eyes found the camera—found me—after that goal.

The wink. Oh God, that wink.

My phone buzzes. Liam. Perfect timing, as always.

“Hey, big brother.”

“You free for dinner tonight? Seven o’clock?”

“Yeah, I could?—”

“Listen.” His voice drops lower, and my stomach flips. I know that tone. It’s his brace yourself; I need a favor voice.

I sit up straighter. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. Yet . ” A pause. “But I should give you a heads-up. Dmitri’s in a bind. His nanny has to fly back to Moscow—family emergency—and he needs someone to watch Ris for the next three weeks until his mother-in-law gets back from her cruise.”

My heart doesn’t just skip a beat—it launches into a full aerial routine. “And you thought of…?”

“You, obviously. You’re great with kids, you’ve got a flexible schedule, and Ris already adores you. Plus, the extra cash could help with that new cello you refuse to let me buy you.”

I glance at my current instrument—on loan from school after my cello met an untimely demise a few months ago. He’s not wrong.

“And I’ll say it again, Liam. I want to sort it out myself. A thirty-thousand-dollar cello isn’t the same as grabbing a cappuccino at Moonbeams.”

“Right, and this gig would get you a lot closer to sorting it out.”

I chew my lip. “So, dinner tonight is a setup?”

“Think of it as an introduction. No pressure, just come meet Ris properly. If it feels right, great. If not, no hard feelings.” He hesitates. “But…he’s really in a tough spot, E.”

I lean back, staring at my ceiling, where concert posters and playbills form a collage of dreams I’m still fighting to make reality. My laptop sits open on my secondhand desk, the video editing software paused on a frame I definitely haven’t been analyzing all afternoon. One where Dmitri Sokolov is winking and miming a cello in front of twenty thousand people.

My mouth moves before my brain catches up. “I’ll be there.”

After hanging up, I stare at my reflection in the window. A couple of weeks of nannying. It could work. Tanglewood doesn’t start until July anyway—if they even decide to give me a spot—and my teaching schedule at Marymount wraps up in June. Plus, the extra money wouldn’t hurt.

Three weeks. In Dmitri’s home. With his daughter.

Three weeks of trying not to stare at those hands.

Three weeks of that accent doing things to my insides.

Three weeks of?—

Stop .

I position my bow once more, determined to at least attempt being productive. But all I can think about are dark eyes and gentle hands and the way he said Miss O’Connor like it was music.

Shostakovich doesn’t stand a chance with me today.

* * *

The video hits one hundred thousand views by the time I pack up for my afternoon lessons. Not bad for a classical musician dabbling in sports content. Though, if I’m being honest, the comments have very little to do with musical theory and everything to do with the players themselves.

Liam, Dmitri, and Adam are getting the most attention, closely followed by Finn and Nate.

Not that I’ve been obsessively reading them. Much.

Teaching at the Upper East Side girls’ school feels like stepping into another universe—one where plaid skirts are perfectly pressed, laughter is hushed, and even the preteens have better handbags than me. The school’s instrumental program is elite, with private lessons and an impressive after-school orchestra, but here, music is just another résumé booster. A polished skill to complement their ivy league applications, not something they’re expected to chase as a career.

Still, my students work hard. They show up, eager to learn.

Emma, my last student of the day, manages a surprisingly solid run through of her piece for the spring recital.

“Great job,” I tell her, meaning it. “Just keep working on those transitions. It takes time to adjust to a full-sized cello.”

She nods earnestly, adjusting her bow hold with the kind of quiet discipline that makes me pause—just for a second—wondering if any of these girls will ever fall for this instrument the way I did.

The drive to Tarrytown takes forever because, naturally, there’s construction on the Saw Mill River Parkway. By the time I pull into the parking garage beneath Liam’s luxury high-rise, my nerves are already shot. Partly from the traffic. Partly from knowing who else will be at this dinner.

Actually, mostly from that second thing.

The doorman recognizes me—one of the perks of being the captain’s sister—and waves me toward the private elevator that opens directly into Liam’s penthouse. The ride up gives me way too much time to second guess every life choice that led me here.

My outfit? Casual but nice. Hopefully not trying-too-hard nice.

My decision to come? Terrifying but necessary.

My ability to keep this professional? Currently hovering somewhere between ‘unlikely’ and ‘absolutely doomed’.

The elevator doors slide open to Liam’s apartment, a masterpiece of glass and steel with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the Manhattan skyline. Sophie’s influence is everywhere—hockey trophies balanced by medical textbooks, fresh flowers in crystal vases, and furniture that whispers adults live here . The air smells like something amazing is simmering on the stove.

“In the kitchen!” Sophie’s voice calls out.

I follow the sound, my heart performing a drum solo against my ribs.

And there they are. Dmitri and Ris at the breakfast bar, heads bent together over a sheet of paper filled with simple math equations. Dmitri’s massive frame makes the barstool look comically small, but his hands—those huge, strong hands—move with such care as he points to something in Ris’s workbook.

Oh dear God, those hands.

I want to feel them on me.

As if reading my mind, he looks up.

Our eyes lock.

And just like that, every shred of carefully practiced detachment evaporates like snow in July.

Oh, I am so completely, utterly screwed.

“Hey, trouble.” Liam’s voice pulls me back to earth as he wraps me in a tight hug. His sharp eyes don’t miss a thing—they never do. “Sparkling water? We’ve got that fancy Italian stuff you like.”

“Perfect.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is a minor miracle considering Dmitri’s presence fills the room like a gravitational field. I can feel his gaze on me as I grab the offered glass, my fingers only slightly shaking.

“Dmitri?” Liam offers another drink, holding up the options. “A non-alcoholic beer?”

“Pellegrino is fine. Thank you.” His accent wraps around the words like pure sin, and my body temperature spikes about ten degrees.

We migrate to the living room, and I pick the far end of the sofa, thinking it would be a safe distance. Except nothing feels safe when Dmitri chooses to sit in the armchair next to me, his dark eyes tracking every movement as I tuck my legs beneath me.

He radiates heat and power, and my brain helpfully supplies a highlight reel of exactly how that control might feel if he decided to put that delicious body on top of mine. Liquid heat pools between my thighs as I feel his dark eyes burning into me. We might as well be alone in the room. Everyone else ceases to exist. All I can think about is his proximity, and how I would like him to be even closer.

But I am mature, and I am definitely not imagining climbing him like a tree.

“So,” Liam starts, then stops. His gaze bounces between us, and something clicks in his expression—recognition, followed by mild concern. “Erin, about the, uh, situation...”

But I’m barely listening. Dmitri leans forward, and the motion pulls his shirt tight across his shoulders—the same shoulders I spent hours editing out of my video last night. The same shoulders I’ll be seeing daily for three weeks.

“…think it would work?” Liam’s voice breaks through the haze.

“What?”

Real smooth, Erin.

Dmitri’s lips twitch, just enough to make my cheeks heat.

“The schedule,” Liam repeats, his captain face firmly in place now. “For watching Ris. Until Galina gets here.”

“Right. The schedule.” I drag my focus back to reality. “I’ve got a few performances lined up—Le Poisson Rouge next weekend and a graduation showcase in May. My Marymount students are on Wednesdays from three to six, and I’ve got some private lessons, but those are flexible.”

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, hyper-aware of Dmitri’s unwavering attention. “The summer festival wouldn’t start until July anyway. If I get in. Still waiting to hear back from Tanglewood.”

“Tanglewood?” Dmitri’s voice rumbles through me, low and rich. “Very prestigious. You auditioned?”

I nod, not trusting my voice. The way he’s looking at me—intense, thoughtful, like he’s seeing something new—makes my heart race. His jaw tightens, his hands flex on the armrests like he’s holding something back.

“Yeah, well,” I say, aiming for casual. “It’s a long shot. But until then, my schedule’s pretty open.”

Too open. Open enough to spend way too much time noticing the way his hands curl around his water glass, or how his accent gets thicker when he’s thinking, or?—

“Your playing.” His words cut through my spiraling thoughts. “It is very technical. Precise.”

I blink. “You’ve heard me play?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “YouTube is very...educational.”

Oh God. He’s googled me.

Liam clears his throat loudly, drawing both our gazes. “Maybe we should discuss logistics.”

But logistics are the last thing on my mind because Dmitri just shifted closer, his knee brushing mine, and the air between us feels electric enough to power Manhattan.

“I’ll get Sophie,” Liam mutters, backing toward the door like he’s escaping an incoming disaster. “And maybe some wine. This situation could use alcohol.”

“What situation?” I ask innocently, though my fingers are twisting the hem of my shirt, and Dmitri’s gaze hasn’t left me once.

“This.” Liam waves between us, exasperated. “This whole thing happening here. You know what? I’m getting Sophie and a drink. Probably several.”

He disappears into the kitchen, leaving us in tense silence.

“So,” I say, clearing my throat, willing my face to stay neutral. “You watched my channel?”

Dmitri’s lips curve in that devastating smirk. “Independent research,” he says smoothly. “Just to be sure.”

My stomach flips. Oh no.

“For Ris,” he adds, voice dripping with amusement. “To understand who I’m going to be leaving my daughter with.”

His eyes flick over me, dark and unreadable, and suddenly, I feel inspected . Studied.

“Right,” I say, nodding way too fast. “For Ris. Of course.”

“Of course,” he echoes, gaze still locked on mine. And just like that, I’m back in that moment from last Saturday, when he turned my own words against me with that same quiet confidence.

Maybe you should do some independent research. Just to be sure.

My cheeks are on fire. “You saw the hockey video?”

His eyes gleam, dark and knowing. “Also...educational.”

Oh. Oh no.

The way he says educational —low, deliberate, laced with something that should require a damn parental advisory—sends a bolt of heat through me so fast it’s a miracle I don’t combust on the spot.

Abort. Abort. Abort.

But before I can formulate a coherent response, Sophie breezes in, Ris chattering beside her, oblivious to the fact that I’m seconds away from melting into a puddle.

“Dinner’s ready!” Sophie announces, entirely too chipper. Then, because she’s a menace, she glances between me and Dmitri and smirks. “And maybe we can discuss childcare arrangements at the table?”

Dmitri chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that does absolutely nothing to help my composure. I glare at Sophie, silently promising revenge.

She just winks and drags me toward the dining room, leaving me with no choice but to follow—right alongside the six-foot-four problem I absolutely do not need in my life.

As we make our way to the dining room, I catch Liam’s concerned look.

The setting never fails to take my breath away. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Hudson River like an artist’s masterpiece, Manhattan’s lights twinkling in the dusk. Sophie’s influence is everywhere, transforming the space into something out of a magazine. Candles flicker on the dark wood table, and a roast chicken so perfectly golden it could star in a cooking show sits at the center.

“This is…” I pause, eyeing the spread of roasted vegetables artfully arranged on a platter. “Sophie, this is incredible.”

She laughs, waving me into a seat. “Cooking relaxes me. Plus, you should see my knife skills now—those anatomy labs are paying off.”

“She means she’s practicing surgical precision on poultry,” Liam says, helping Ris into her chair. “You should see her butterfly a chicken breast. It’s terrifying.”

“Perfect practice for med school,” Sophie quips, winking at Ris. “Don’t worry, I was much gentler with your carrots.”

We settle around the table, and somehow, I end up directly across from Dmitri. Candlelight does unfair things to his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his jaw and cheekbones while adding a new depth to his dark, focused eyes. He’s helping Ris cut her chicken, his massive hands careful and gentle.

“So,” he begins, his voice turning all business. “Schedule is important. Very structured.” He pulls out his phone, scrolling as he speaks. “Morning routine starts at six-thirty. Breakfast at seven. School at eight.”

I nod, trying very hard to focus on the details and not the way his hands absolutely dwarf his phone.

“After school—homework first, then play. Dinner at five. Bed by eight. No sugar after six.” His eyes meet mine, steady and commanding. “She will try to negotiate. Do not let her.”

Ris giggles around a mouthful of chicken. “I’m very good at negotiating.”

“You are very good at trying to negotiate,” Dmitri corrects, but there’s pride in his voice that makes my heart ache. “Figure skating Tuesday and Thursday after school.” He pauses, dragging a hand through his hair. “I handle morning drop-off when in New York, but with playoffs…”

“I can handle that,” I offer quickly. Maybe too quickly. “Except Wednesday pickups. I have my Marymount girls from three to six.”

“I’ll cover Wednesdays,” Sophie jumps in without missing a beat. “And any evenings Erin has performances. My classes are mostly mornings this semester, anyway.”

“Perfect.” Dmitri nods, then slides his phone across the table to show me a number that makes my breath catch. “This compensation works for you?”

“That’s…” I swallow hard. “Yes. That works.”

“And cello lessons?” Ris bounces in her seat, her eyes wide with excitement. “You’ll teach me now?”

Her enthusiasm is contagious, and I can’t help but smile at her. But when I glance at Dmitri, his expression softens in a way that makes my heart do a completely unauthorized somersault.

“If your papa agrees?—”

“We discuss music lessons separately,” Dmitri interrupts, his tone firm but laced with warmth. There’s something final about the way he says it, like he’s drawing a line in the sand. “Professional arrangement.”

Professional. I need to tattoo that word onto my brain so it sticks.

“Here is her detailed schedule.” Dmitri slides a folded piece of paper across the table, his fingers brushing mine in the process.

The touch is brief—barely a second—but it’s enough to send a jolt up my arm, lighting up every nerve ending like a Christmas tree. My breath catches, and for one wild moment, I’m convinced he felt it too because his eyes flicker, darkening.

Liam notices.

It’s subtle—the way his shoulders stiffen, the quick glance between us, and the faint narrowing of his eyes. But it’s there.

“Great! All settled!” Sophie’s voice cuts through the charged silence, too cheerful, too knowing. Her tone has that teasing edge that makes me want to crawl under the table and stay there forever. “Between the two of us, we’ve got all the coverage figured out.”

Liam clears his throat, and his captain face is firmly in place now, all calm authority. But his gaze lingers on Dmitri for a second too long, then shifts to me, filled with quiet concern.

“Settled,” Dmitri repeats, his voice steady, but his fingers flex on the table like he’s trying to release some of the tension from the moment.

“Perfect,” I manage, though my voice is thinner than I’d like. My fingers tighten around the paper like it’s a lifeline.

Liam says nothing, but his silence feels loaded, like he’s cataloging every glance, every flicker of tension passing between us. His jaw works as he leans back, his eyes bouncing between Dmitri and me one last time before Sophie sweeps the conversation forward.

But the accidental touch lingers on my skin.

Dinner flows easily after that, with Ris chattering about her activities, Dmitri filling in details, and Sophie and Liam offering helpful tips. But I keep getting distracted by little things.

Like the way Dmitri’s fingers curl around his water glass. Or how his biceps flex when he reaches for the salt. Or the soft Russian endearments he murmurs to Ris that make her giggle.

“Erin?” Liam’s voice cuts through my daze. “You got all that?”

“Huh? Oh, yes.” I straighten quickly. “No sugar after six, homework before play, and don’t let her practice figure skating moves in the house.”

“That was ten minutes ago,” Liam mutters under his breath.

But Dmitri watches me with quiet intensity—something like approval, and maybe something more. Something that steals the air from my lungs.

Three weeks, I remind myself. Just three weeks.

Helping my brother’s friend. Helping the Defenders. Getting halfway to a new cello.

That’s all this is.

“Papa, can Erin start tomorrow?” Ris practically vibrates with excitement, hands clasped like she’s making the most important wish of her life. “Please? I’ll show her my room and my books and?—”

Dmitri’s gaze drags me back to reality. “Does that work for you?” His voice is steady. Certain. Like he already knows my answer. “Not much time to prepare. Move things.”

Move things. Into his house.

While maintaining boundaries.

I swallow. Nod weakly.

“Pack tomorrow morning,” Dmitri continues, still watching me. “I’ll come by at two, after practice and recovery. Ris will go to figure skating with her friend, and we’ll pick her up on the way back home. Sound good?”

“Perfect!” My voice comes out alarmingly high-pitched. “Totally perfect. Everything’s perfect.”

Across the table, Liam mutters something under his breath that sounds a hell of a lot like fucking disaster.

And honestly? He’s probably right.

Because I’m so, so completely, totally fucked.