Page 28 of The Pucking Arrangement

I throw Melissa an apologetic wave, then trail after Dmitri.

As we head rink-side, I swear I hear him mutter something in Russian under his breath—something low, rough, and filthy sounding.

But before I can ask, a high-pitched voice cuts through the chilly air.

“Papa! Erin!”

Ris spots us and waves enthusiastically, then immediately topples, her skates flying out from under her. She hits the ice in a heap of sparkly fabric and flailing limbs.

My heart leaps into my throat, but before I can so much as gasp, she’s already giggling, pushing herself back up like it never happened.

“She is tougher than she looks,” Dmitri murmurs, something warm and quiet threading through his voice. Pride. Love.

“Like her dad?” The words slip out before I can stop them, and when I glance up at him, I catch an unguarded flicker in his eyes, making my stomach flip.

Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. The walls slam back into place, his spine straightens, and his voice turns brisk. “You should learn the rink layout. Bathrooms. Emergency exits.”

And just like that, Commander Grumpy is back.

The tour is…unnecessarily thorough. Like, I-could-evacuate-this-place-in-my-sleep level thorough. But I follow him anyway, trying very hard not to notice how every mom in the building tracks him like he’s the main character in their collective fantasy.

Can’t blame them, really. The man has the whole brooding, overprotective, romance novel hero thing down to a science.

By the time we make our way back, Ris’s class is wrapping up. The second her coach dismisses them, she rockets toward us like a tiny, tulle-covered missile, her skates barely touching the ice.

Dmitri intercepts her effortlessly, lifting her into the air like she weighs nothing. She shrieks with laughter, her arms locking around his neck as she practically vibrates with excitement.

“Papa, did you see?” she gasps. “I did a full spin without falling!”

“Very good, Amnushka.” His voice softens. Warms. His scowl disappears entirely, replaced by tenderness.

“Erin, you’ll watch next time too?” Ris grabs my hand, her small fingers curling around mine like she’s already decided I belong to her.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, meaning it, and she grins brightly.

The drive home is quiet, winding through tree-lined streets bordered with elegant brownstones and old money mansions. When Dmitri finally turns into a circular driveway, the house comes into view—classic, sprawling, and undeniably beautiful.

It’s the kind of place that whispers history.

But inside, it’s warmth. I expected something sleek and impersonal—cold marble, modern furniture, blank walls. Instead, the space feels rich with life. Plush rugs in deep jewel tones soften the floors. Bookshelves line the walls, overflowing with titles in English and Russian. Artwork covers the hallways—ballet dancers mid-leap, drawings of musicians frozen in passionate performances.

It’s beautiful.

It’s them.

Dmitri shrugs out of his jacket. “Your room is upstairs. Second door on the right.”

“Can I show her my room?” Ris interrupts, practically bouncing on her toes. “Please, Papa?”

“Let her settle in?—”

“Come on!” She grabs my hand, dragging me toward the stairs before Dmitri can finish his sentence.

Her room is a little girl’s dream. Soft pink walls, fairy lights draped along the ceiling, a window seat piled high with pillows. Sparkly dresses hang beside skates, and stuffed animals are carefully arranged in neat rows, each one obviously loved.

“And here’s where you’ll stay!” she announces, yanking me toward the next door.

The guest room is spacious, decorated in calming blues and creams, with a massive bed and big windows that overlook the quiet street below.

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