Page 125 of The Pucking Arrangement

Tonight.

Chapter25

The Last Dance

Dmitri

The front door swings open to the sound of giggles.

My girls are home.

My girls.

The thought slams into me, a full-body check that leaves me winded, standing at the kitchen counter with a serving spoon in my hand like some lovesick idiot. Because if I don’t figure out how to tell her that she needs to stay, she won’t be mine much longer.

“Papa!” Ris’s voice drifts in from the foyer, heavy with exhaustion but laced with pure satisfaction. “I ate sooo much pasta at Kaycee’s! And ice cream! And—” A massive yawn cuts her off mid-sentence.

“Sounds like someone’s ready for bed.” Erin laughs.

Good. Because tonight, I want Erin all to myself.

I step into the hallway just in time to see Ris pressed against Erin’s chest, her golden curls tumbling over Erin’s shoulder like spun sunlight, tiny fingers absentmindedly twisting through the fiery waves of Erin’s copper hair. Under the warm glow of the foyer light, their strands tangle together—gold and red, bright and soft, woven like they were always meant to fit.

Jesus.

“Story?” Ris mumbles, her words half buried against Erin’s neck.

“Of course, sweet girl.” Erin’s eyes meet mine over Ris’s head, soft and warm and—fuck me—blazing.

“Want Papa to?—”

“No,” Ris cuts in, nuzzling closer. “You do the Gerald voice better.”

My lips twitch. My kid is an excellent wingman.

“Go ahead,” I say smoothly. “I’ll have dinner ready when you’re done.”

Erin shoots me a knowing smile, like she’s just as eager for some time alone, but she doesn’t say anything. Ris is already tugging her upstairs, yawning through a monologue about her playdate.

Perfect timing.

The garden is ready. Fairy lights weave through the cherry trees, throwing soft, golden halos against the deepening twilight. The pool shimmers under the fading sun, rose gold dancing across the water’s surface.

And beneath the largest tree, where the branches stretch wide like a natural canopy, I’ve set the table. Small, intimate, and perfect to woo my girl.

The menu is simple, but thought through—her favorites, little things I’ve noticed over the weeks. Burrata with heirloom tomatoes. Chicken Kiev. A dark chocolate soufflé from the bakery in town. Wine breathing. Candles flickering. Mozart filtering softly through hidden speakers because she once mentioned it helps her unwind.

Everything is right.

She was supposed to be temporary.

But now, it’s time to make it permanent.

Her footsteps falter as she takes in the garden.

“Oh.” Just that one soft syllable, but it hits me straight in the chest.

I watch her take it all in—the intimate table setting, the candles flickering in crystal holders, the carefully plated food. Her lips part slightly, something unguarded flashing in her eyes before she tucks it away.

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