Page 179 of The Pucking Arrangement

And the most infuriating thing? Despite everything—his stubborn silence, his masterful distractions, his complete unwillingness to define whatever is happening between us—I do.

I absolutely do.

The cab bumps and swerves through midtown traffic, heading uptown on Park Avenue. Dmitri’s thigh is pressed against mine, a solid wall of heat that I’m simultaneously annoyed by and addicted to. The cab’s AC fights a losing battle against the June humidity, and I can feel wisps of hair sticking to the back of my neck.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I ask for the third time.

Dmitri just gives me that infuriating half smile. “Patience.”

“I’ve been patient all day! And every time I start an actual conversations, you distract me.” I nudge him with my elbow.

His smirk deepens. “You weren’t complaining about those diversions an hour ago.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” His hand lands on my knee, his thumb making maddening little circles against my skin.

“The point is—” I lose my train of thought as his fingers inch higher. I bat his hand away. “Stop that. The point is, you can’t just flip my world upside down and then refuse to talk about it.”

The cab turns left onto 85th Street, and I catch a glimpse of the verdant tunnel of Central Park at the end of the block. But we’re not heading that way. Instead, we pull up in front of a stately prewar building on the corner of Fifth Avenue.

My stomach does a weird little flip. This is definitely not a hockey rink or a restaurant or any of the places I’d guessed we might be going.

Dmitri pays the driver, then offers me his hand. I take it, stepping onto the sidewalk lined with manicured trees and the kind of quiet that only extreme wealth can buy. The air smells different up here—less like hot garbage and food carts, more like old money and meticulously maintained gardens.

“Dmitri, what is this?” I whisper as he leads me toward the building’s entrance.

No answer. Of course.

The doorman—an actual doorman, in a perfectly pressed uniform with actual white gloves—greets us with a nod of quiet deference. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sokolov.”

Dmitri shakes his hand. “Call me Dmitri, please.” Then, with a glance in my direction, he adds, “This is Erin. My girlfriend.”

The doorman just smiles and ushers us in. No questions. No explanation of why we’re here or why Dmitri Sokolov has a standing greeting in a building that screams generational wealth.

The lobby looks like something out of a Gatsby fever dream—polished marble floors, a massive crystal chandelier, cream-colored walls with gilded accents. Even the air feels expensive. My ballet flats make no sound on the plush carpet as Dmitri leads me toward the elevator bank.

I yank on his hand. “Seriously, what the hell is going on? Why are we at some fancy Upper East Side building where the doorman knows your name?”

Still nothing. Just a smirk as he presses the call button.

The elevator arrives—walnut-paneled with brass fixtures, because of course it is. Dmitri places a hand on the small of my back, guiding me inside like this is completely normal.

“Eighth floor,” he says, finally breaking his silence and pushing the button.

Which, for the record, is not the explanation I’m looking for.

I open my mouth to demand actual answers, but then he pulls something out of his pocket. A black silk scarf.

He snaps it between his hands.

“Turn around.”

I blink. “What?”

His gaze is steady, penetrating, leaving no room for argument. “You heard me. Turn around.”

I hate how much it both upsets and arouses me. The way his voice scrapes over my skin like gravel and heat all at once.

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