Page 26 of The Pucking Arrangement

Except I completely misjudge the weight, and the damn thing nearly topples out of my arms.

Before I can recover, he’s there, large hands covering mine, steadying me effortlessly. Warm, rough palms, fingers curling around my wrists just enough to send a sharp jolt of awareness through my body.

Time stops.

His breath brushes my neck, and every nerve ending I own riots.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice gravel. His accent is thicker than usual.

I forget how to breathe.

My pulse skyrockets. My entire body is suddenly very aware that Dmitri Sokolov is touching me.

This must be what a heart attack feels like.

I need to never touch him again.

Then he’s gone, taking the box—and all my brain function—with him.

The drive is torture. I’ve endured painfully awkward silences before. Like the time I played the wrong movement at a conservatory recital and had to power through an entire allegro while the orchestra was expecting an adagio.

Or when my bow hair snapped mid-performance at a summer festival, leaving me on stage with a useless piece of wood in my hands.

But this?So much worse.

Dmitri hasn’t spoken since we left my apartment. He just grips the steering wheel like it personally insulted him, jaw clenched so tight I’m worried for his molars.

The late afternoon sun spills through the windows, turning the inside of the car gold, warming my skin despite the tension hanging thick in the air.

Not that I’m complaining about the view.

The light catches his profile just right, sharpening those cheekbones, making the faint stubble along his jaw look unfairly attractive. His forearms flex as he turns onto the highway, and heat coils low in my stomach.

Nope.Not going there.

Focus on anything else.

Like the fact that I’m about to spend three full weeks living with a man who apparently communicates exclusively in grunts and scowls.

The skating rink parking lot is packed, SUVs and minivans crammed into every available space. Inside, through the massive glass windows, tiny figures in sequined outfits glide across the ice, miniature Olympians-in-training.

Dmitri pulls into a spot and cuts the engine.

“Come.”

His first word in twenty-five excruciating minutes.But who’s counting?

Inside, the familiar rink chill wraps around me, mingling with the sharp scent of ice and the echoes of childhood memories. The sounds of my new reality fill the space—blades slicing over ice, high-pitched giggles, and the occasionalthunkof small bodies discovering gravity.

Six little girls, all around Ris’s age, practice wobbly spins while their instructor gracefully glides, demonstrating perfect form.

And just like that, my crash course inLiving with Dmitri Sokolovofficially begins.

Then I hear a high-pitched voice.

“Dmitri! What adelightfulsurprise.”

A blonde goddess in head-to-toe Lululemon materializes beside us, all glossy highlights and a megawatt smile so precise it could cut glass. She radiates that particular brand of Westchester energy that says she has a standing appointment for everything—hair, brows, facials, probably even a soul realignment.

---