Page 183 of The Pucking Arrangement

Relief crashes over me, so fierce it leaves me unsteady. I kiss her again, deep and claiming, pouring every unspoken word into her—I missed you. I love you. You’re mine. I’m yours.

When we break apart, she’s breathless, her cheeks flushed, eyes flicking around the empty space. “So,” she murmurs, mischief curling at the edges of her smile. “Are we christening every room, or…?”

I bark out a laugh, heat surging low in my gut. “Eager,solnyshko?”

“Just practical.” She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “It’s a lot of square footage.”

“Then we better get started.” I scoop her up again, ignoring her squeal. “I have some props handy I’ve been recently inspired to try out.”

“We don’t even have a bed!”

“Insignificant details.” I carry her down the hall, her laughter ringing through the empty space. “I’m nothing if not resourceful.”

She loops her arms around my neck, eyes bright with something bigger than amusement—something I can feel thrumming between us, anchoring us in place.

Home.

No matter where she goes, what stages she plays, what crowds worship her—thisis what matters.

Her laughter, her warmth,her.

The only dream worth chasing.

Epilogue

Crossing Oceans

Erin

The line fromEugene Oneginmakes me pause, finger hovering above the weathered page.

Love obeys all ages.

I’ve read it a dozen times on this JFK runway, trying to absorb the poetry while my mind bounces between nervousness about Dubrovnik and the empty ache already forming at leaving Dmitri behind.

Empty. Just like the two first-class seats across the aisle from mine.

“Those passengers are cutting it close,” the flight attendant murmurs as she refills my sparkling water. “We’re pushing back in twenty.”

I smile politely, tucking a bookmark into the novel. Pushkin understands timing and missed opportunities better than most. The what-ifs and almost-nevers that haunt relationships. The pale moments becoming glowing ones.

Like Dmitri dragging me to bed after the Stanley Cup win with no explanation or justification. Like waking up next to him that first morning, the sun painting his shoulders gold. Like his scorching hands when he blindfolded me and led me into that apartment—ourapartment—the key, cold and heavy in my palm.

My phone buzzes.

[Dmitri]: Have a safe flight, solnyshko. I love you.

My chest tightens. Just this morning, he pressed me against his Range Rover in the departures lane, lips possessive and unhurried despite the honking taxis.

“I’ll miss this,” he’d murmured against my mouth. “The way you taste in the morning.”

I’d smacked his chest, laughing through the lump in my throat. “It’s just three weeks.”

“Too long,” he’d growled, fingers digging into my hips like he could keep me anchored there forever.

The last week has been pure chaos—shuttling between his Tarrytown mansion and my tiny Village apartment, sleeping tangled in his sheets or crammed into my IKEA bed frame that groaned alarmingly under his weight. Waking up each morning to his sleepy Russian murmurs, his hands already searching for me before his eyes even opened.

Telling Ris had been both easier and harder than I expected.

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