Page 168 of The Pucking Arrangement

Luka blinks. Then Marko loses it, snorting.

“I would have paid good money to see that,” he gasps between wheezes. “Luka, you should have warned me—he’s even bigger in person.”

Luka recovers, flipping his hair dramatically. “Please. You would have fought me?Me?” He gestures to himself in all his imposing, perfectly put-together glory. “Dmitri,dragi, I was born for battle. I have outplayed concertmasters, charmed opera divas, and survived my grandmother’sverystrong opinions about my haircut. Do you honestly think you stand a chance?”

“Yes,” I deadpan.

Marko wheezes again, wiping a tear from his eye. “HeisRussian, my love. He probably wrestled a bear as a child and took swims in the Volga River.”

Luka chuckles, waving a dismissive hand. “Fine, fine. Hypothetically, you might have been able to take me in a street fight. But tragically, the world will never know because—shocker—I was never going to fight you over Erin.” He exhales dramatically, as if the sheer burden of dealing with my stupidity is personally weighing him down. “Instead, I took the liberty of handling some very obvious things for you.”

He pulls out his phone, swiping to an itinerary. “Here’s your flight information. Direct flight to Dubrovnik. Two tickets—for you and your adorable little daughter. Text me your email, and it’s all yours.”

I stare at the screen, jaw clenching.

“You better be on that plane, Sokolov.” Luka’s voice sharpens as he casually plucks my phone from my hand, types something, and hands it back. “There. You have my number now.” His eyes narrow. “She’ll perform better if she’s happy. Andyoumake her happy. Don’t be a dumbass.”

I glance at Marko, who’s watching the exchange with open amusement. He smirks and shrugs. “He’s right, you know. I’ve got extra concert tickets for you and the little one. Once you’re in Dubrovnik, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

Luka claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, grinning like he just saved a nation. “See? We’re all very invested in your love life. Now don’t screw it up.” He pats my cheek lightly—the bastard actually pats my cheek—before strutting away, Marko following with a wink.

I exhale sharply, drag a hand down my face, and scan the room.

Erin’s moved to a corner, alone now, the performance smile fading into something softer. Something sad.

My chest tightens.

Enough.

No more waiting. No more excuses.

Tonight. Not tomorrow. Now.

I move toward her, cutting through the lingering crowd, but before I can reach her, Galina steps into my path, Ris’s small hand in hers.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” she asks, eyes sharp.

“To fix my mistake.”

Her brows lift before softening with understanding. Then she actually smirks.“About time.”

“Can you take Ris home?”

Ris blinks up at me, sleepy but alert enough to argue. “But, Papa, I want?—”

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” I promise, crouching to her level. “I need to talk to Erin. Grown-ups only, Amnushka.”

Ris frowns, clearly unimpressed. Then, with all the brutal honesty of a six-year-old, she asks, “Are you going to tell her you love her?”

My heart stops. Then restarts at twice the speed.

“Yes,” I say hoarsely. “That’s the plan.”

Galina’s smirk turns downright victorious. “We’ll be fine. Take your time.” She winks. “Come, Risochka. Let’s leave your papa to hisvery importantbusiness.”

I press a kiss to Ris’s forehead, straighten, and meet Galina’s knowing gaze. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” She tilts her head. “Just don’t mess it up.”

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