Page 184 of The Pucking Arrangement

We’d sat her down in the kitchen after her skating lesson, my stomach in knots, hands fidgeting with my coffee mug.

“Amnushka,” Dmitri had started, his voice gentle but serious. “Erin and I need to talk to you about something important.”

Ris had looked between us, those impossibly blue eyes sparkling with expectation. “Are you getting married?”

I’d choked on my coffee.

“Not yet,” Dmitri had replied with maddening calm. “But Erin is going to be living with us now. When she’s not on tour.”

I’d held my breath, waiting for confusion. Questions. Maybe even tears.

Instead, she’d launched herself from her chair with a squeal that probably registered on seismic monitors in New Jersey.

“I KNEW IT!” she’d shouted, small arms wrapping around my neck so tight I nearly toppled backward. “Mr. Waddles knew too! We’ve been waiting FOREVER!”

Dmitri had just smirked, the smug jerk, like he’d orchestrated the whole thing.

Galina had been worse.

“Finally,” she’d declared when we told her, tapping her temple like she’d seen it all along. “I thought I would need to lock you two in the wine cellar.”

Then she’d pressed a folder of handwritten recipe cards into my hands, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “For when he is hungry after practice. Or after...other exertions.”

My face had caught fire. Dmitri had just laughed.

“Final boarding call for passengers on Flight 1427 to Dubrovnik.”

I blink, shaking off the memory as another announcement crackles overhead. Those empty seats are still empty. Probably some wealthy couple running fashionably late.

I turn back to Pushkin, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of his words, when a commotion in the aisle makes me freeze.

A familiar voice—small, high-pitched, andveryexcited.

“Erin! Erin! We made it!”

My head snaps up, heart lodging somewhere in my throat.

Ris barrels down the aisle, Mr. Waddles clutched in one hand, her blonde curls bouncing wildly beneath a sun hat covered in—are those tiny cellos?

And behind her?—

“Surprise,solnyshko.”

Dmitri. My Dmitri. Ducking to avoid the overhead bins, a weekend bag slung over one massive shoulder, looking so unfairly gorgeous in dark jeans and a T-shirt that my brain short-circuits.

“What the?—”

“SURPRISE!” Ris leaps at me, landing square in my lap with enough force to knock Pushkin to the floor. “We’re going to CRO-AY-SHA with you!”

I catch her automatically, still staring at Dmitri like he’s a mirage. “You— But— What?—”

“Very articulate.” He smirks as he stows their bags in the overhead compartment, biceps flexing beneath the soft fabric. “We’re coming with you.”

Luka and Marko, seated directly behind me, whoop in unison.

“You cut it so damn close,” Luka exclaims, fist-bumping Dmitri as he slides into the seat across the aisle. “I thought maybe a rogue Zamboni got you in the terminal.”

“Or he got stuck in traffic recreating Erin’s departure kiss,” Marko adds, waggling his brows.

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