Page 2 of The Pucking Arrangement

Recognition clicks, and suddenly I can’t breathe for an entirely different reason.

“You look different off the ice.”

Brilliant, Erin. Truly inspired. I mentally smack myself because my brain has finally caught up to my mouth, and, holy hell, Dmitri Sokolov is standing right in front of me. Star defenseman. My brother’s teammate. The single dad who sends forwards flying into the boards like they’re stuffed animals.

The same Dmitri Sokolov who is now looking at me like he might want to have me for dessert.

“You thought I was taller?” His mouth curves into a cocky smirk I’d very much like to lick off his face.

Jesus, woman. Get it together.

“Well,” I start, straightening my spine, because if we’re playing this game, I’m not losing. “The skates and pads do make you guys look kind of...big.”

Ohmygawd. Nope. Abort. Abort.

“That so?” His voice drops, rich and velvety, sliding over my skin like a slow, deliberate caress, melting every last shred of rational thought.

I scramble for a way to backpedal. “That’s not—I mean?—”

He takes a slow step forward, and suddenly he’s too close, his massive frame eclipsing mine, his heat seeping into my skin. My breath catches as his gaze drops, slow and probing, dragging over me.

“Kind of big, hmm?” His voice is pure sin now, dark and teasing. “Maybe you should do some independent research. Just to be sure.”

My pulse riots. My mind goes straight to filthy places, and judging by the way his eyes gleam, he’s already there.

Before I can come up with a single coherent thought, Amneris wriggles free from his grasp and makes a beeline for my cello, completely oblivious to the fact that her father is standing in front of me, practically undressing me with his stare.

An embarrassed laugh escapes me, and I grasp onto the moment like a lifeline. “She’s welcome to keep exploring if she wants.”

Dmitri hums, gaze flicking between me and his daughter. “That’s generous of you.” His lips twitch. “She already thinks she’s the conductor of the Philharmonic,” he mutters, but there’s a softness in his voice that makes my chest tight in ways it absolutely shouldn’t.

For one reckless moment, I let myself imagine what if. Then I quickly shut that thought down because, hell no. That’s a dangerous path. I definitely don’t need a rugged hockey player daddy complicating my life, no matter how irresistibly tempting he looks in that suit. Or howbighe is.

Damn. It feels like my mind just can’t help wandering into filthy territory.

But then his gaze shifts back to me, and my resolve wobbles. His jaw tightens, his tone laced with reprimand. “You should not encourage children to touch expensive instruments.”

How exactly might he choose to punish me for my infraction?

Shit, Erin, will you cut it out?

“Actually, that’s literally why I’m here.” I straighten bravely and gesture toward the Young People’s Concert banner overhead. “Teaching kids about music? Kind of the whole point.” I lower my voice conspiratorially. “And by the way, this cello isn’t mine. The Philharmonic loans us old instruments for events like these.”

“Teaching is fine,” he allows, but there’s a muscle ticking in his jaw, like he’s indulging me—for now. Like he finds my defiance amusing, but only because he knows exactly who’s in charge. “Unsupervised access to?—”

“Oh, come on,” I cut him off, arching a brow, deliberately pushing. “She weighs forty pounds soaking wet. Pretty sure she’s not about to sprint off with a full-sized cello.”

Something flickers in his dark eyes—annoyance, maybe, but there’s a glint of something else. Something predatory. Like he enjoys the fight. Like he enjoys me pushing back because he’s already thinking about all the ways he could make me submit.

Then he takes a slow step closer, and the air between us shifts, charged with something hot and unspoken. My skin prickles, heat licking at my spine, and I roll my sleeves back, desperate for any kind of relief. But it only makes things worse because now his gaze drops, lingering on my exposed forearms, tracking every subtle movement like he’s memorizing me.

And the way he looks at me?

Like he’s already decided exactly how this ends. My skin flushes and my brain spirals into very, very inappropriate places.

Like what those massive hands would feel like dragging up my thighs.

Or what else about him might be equally...impressive.

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