Page 185 of The Pucking Arrangement

Dmitri grunts, unimpressed, and fastens his seatbelt. “Mind your business,dragi.”

Marko just grins. “Oh, we are minding it. We’re fully invested at this point.”

My head is spinning, a grin splitting my face. “You’re coming?”

Dmitri turns to me, his eyes softer now, his fingers brushing mine on the armrest. “Three weeks is too long,solnyshko.”

And just like that, every fear, every what-if, every pale moment that could have become a regret disappears.

I lean in, pressing my forehead to his, breathing him in.

“You’re amazing,” I whisper.

His lips curl at the corners. “You are.”

The plane rumbles as it taxis down the runway, the vibrations rolling through the cabin.

Love obeys all ages.

Pushkin’s words stare up at me from the page, but my brain is short-circuiting. Because Dmitri Sokolov—the man who hates surprises, whose entire life runs on discipline and schedules—is sitting across the aisle, looking pleased. And beside him, his six-year-old daughter is positively vibrating with excitement.

“Papa got us on the same airplane!” Ris whispers loudly, as if imparting a state secret. “We’re going to see you play music, and eat fish, and swim in the Adri... Adri…”

“Adriatic,” Dmitri supplies smoothly, his hand reaching over the aisle to hold mine.

I’m still gaping. “But your training, Fire Island…”

“Handled.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to that rough, lazy drawl that does dangerous things to my self-control. “Marko arranged everything.”

I blink. “Marko?”

Luka, sitting directly behind me, lets out an exaggerated sigh. “You wound me,draga.” He leans between the seats, his signature smirk firmly in place. “How could you doubt us?”

Marko nudges him aside, grinning as he fist bumps Dmitri. “We were starting to think he wouldn’t make it. Cutting it a little close,medo.”

“Blame the JFK construction,” Dmitri grunts, but his smirk lingers.

Luka clutches his chest dramatically. “For a second, we thought you had been compromised. Kidnapped, perhaps. Or worse—” His eyes glint with mischief. “Detained by a particularly needysolnyshkoat the departure terminal.”

Marko snickers.

Dmitri, utterly unbothered, just raises a brow. “Jealous?”

Luka sighs. “A little. The passion. The drama. The public indecency.”

I groan, burying my face in my hands. “I hate all of you.”

“Don’t lie,draga.” Luka pats my shoulder. “You love us. Especially this one.” He gestures lazily at Dmitri. “It is obscene how much you love this one.”

Dmitri hums approvingly, clearly enjoying their observations.

“Miss,” the flight attendant interrupts, appearing at my side, “your daughter needs to be in her own seat for takeoff.”

“Oh, she’s not my—” I start, but Ris is already climbing over the armrest to settle beside Dmitri.

“Can I have airplane juice?” she asks, buckling herself in with practiced ease. “And cookies? Papa says airplanes have special cookies.”

“Apple juice and Biscoff, coming right up,” the flight attendant says warmly before disappearing down the aisle.

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