Page 29 of The Pucking Arrangement

“Papa’s room is at the end of the hall, and?—”

“And now,” Dmitri’s voice rumbles from the doorway, firm but patient, “you must show her the music room. Since Erin is a cellist.”

Ris gasps, her eyes lighting up. “Oh! Yes! Come see!” She tugs me downstairs to a pair of double doors, throwing them open with dramatic flair.

Inside is a musician’s dream. Warm wood floors, shelves lined with even more books, and massive windows flooding the space with golden light. And in the center of it all—a baby grand piano so polished it gleams, the sunlight catching on its sleek black surface like something sacred.

“Was Mama’s,” Ris says softly, running her small fingers over the keys without pressing down. “Papa keeps it tuned, but nobody plays it.”

A pang tightens in my chest. I glance toward the corner, where a tiny violin case sits, its edges worn with time.

Dmitri follows my gaze, his jaw tightening. “It was mine. From Russia.” He exhales through his nose, like the words cost him something. “I thought maybe…” He trails off, clears his throat. “But Ris wants to play cello now.”

Before I can figure out what to say, the scent of garlic and herbs drifts up from the kitchen, wrapping around us like a warm embrace. My stomach growls, breaking the silence.

“You know how to cook?” I blurt out.

Dmitri lifts an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in something dangerously close to a smirk. “You sound surprised.”

“No, I just…” I flounder, thrown by the shift in him, by this glimpse of the man behind the armor. “I mean, most guys— That is, I didn’t expect?—”

“Most guys don’t need to feed a child,” he states simply, his voice as dry as the look he gives me. “I learned.”

Of course he did. Because of course Dmitri Sokolov would take something as basic as feeding his daughter and turn it into an art form.

“Now unpack,” he continues, already heading for the kitchen. “Dinner will be ready soon. Ris, homework.”

He disappears down the hall, but Ris leans closer, eyes gleaming with a secret. “Papa makes the best chicken Kiev,” she whispers. “Even better than Babushka’s, but don’t tell her I said that.”

A laugh bubbles out of me, unexpected and warm. It’s only been a day, and already, this house—this family—feels like it’s pulling me in.

And that’s both exhilarating and absolutely terrifying.

Chapter7

The Definition of Torture

Dmitri

Having Erin at my dining table is pure, exquisite torture.

Her scent—vanilla, rosin, and a whisper of something I can’t name but know down to my bones—clings to the air, subtle but inescapable, winding around my ribs like a vice. It seeps into my bloodstream, settles in my chest, makes my grip tighten on my fork like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.

And then she reaches for the breadbasket.

The sleeve of her sweater grazes my forearm. A whisper of contact. Fleeting. Devastating. My muscles go taut, my entire body bracing for the jolt that tears through my nervous system like a live wire.

I shouldn’t notice these things.

Shouldn’t track the delicate way she tucks a stray curl behind her ear, completely oblivious to how much I want to do it for her. Shouldn’t follow the curve of her wrist as she lifts her glass, or the slow, deliberate movement of her throat as she swallows.

She doesn’t know.

She can’t know.

“So, Ris,” Erin turns to my daughter, oblivious to the way she’s undoing me, thread by thread. “What foods do you love? Besides pasta and pizza, of course. I should probably know your favorites if I’m going to be here for a while.”

“Everything Papa makes!” Ris declares proudly, grinning up at her. “Especially pelmeni. And his blini!”

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