Page 31 of The Pucking Arrangement

Instead, I stand there like a damn idiot, arms braced against the counter, watching her load my dishwasher like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.

She moves with an ease that unsettles me, like she already belongs in my space. Like she’s always belonged.

It’s too much.Too intimate.

Then she reaches for the top shelf, and her sweater lifts, revealing the softest strip of skin at her waist.

My hands twitch.

I grip the counter harder, forcing my feet to stay planted, forcing my fingersnotto reach.

Bozhe moy.

Does she have any idea what she’s doing? That she’s so tempting? How dangerously close I am to snapping?

“Top shelf?” she asks, stretching higher, her voice a little breathless, whether from exertion or?—

I don’t let myself finish the thought.

A grunt is the only response I can manage, because if I speak, if I move, I might do something reckless.

Like drag her against me. Press my lips to the exposed skin taunting me to see if she tastes as sweet as she smells. Lift her onto this counter and?—

Fuck.

I need a cold plunge. A Siberian blizzard. A damn exorcism.

Erin shifts, her hip brushing the edge of the counter, and it’s all I can do to not look. Not track every little movement. I swear to God, the only thing stopping me from losing control is the fact that my daughter hasn’t gone to bed yet.

“Papa!” Ris calls from the living room, her voice sweet and innocent, completely unaware of my slow descent into madness. “I found the chess set! Can we play? You promised to teach me that knight trick!”

I exhale, sharp and uneven, like I’ve just been yanked back from the edge of an abyss.

Erin turns to me, cheeks flushed, hands resting on the counter behind her, and I don’t know if she feels the same thing thrumming in the air between us, but—God help me—I think she does.

“Go,” she says softly, her voice a little hoarse. “I’ve got this.”

I should move. I should step away.

Her breath hitches, and I imagine my name being right there, hovering on her lips.

“Chess,” I manage roughly, taking a step back before I do something reckless, like slide my hands to her waist and pull her against me. “Ris is waiting.”

“Right.” I could swear I saw her shiver. Then I nod, push off the counter, and force myself to walk away.

Because if I stay a second longer, I won’t walk away at all.

Ris is already setting up the chessboard in the living room, her small hands moving the pieces with the confidence of a reigning champion. Behind me, I hear the quiet click of the dishwasher door closing, followed by the faintest, shaky exhale.

I settle onto the sofa beside my daughter, focusing on the board like it holds the key to survival. Chess has always been my refuge—like hockey, it’s a game of precision, strategy, and control. Every move calculated, every decision a step ahead. But tonight, control feels fragile, slipping through my fingers.

Then I hear soft footsteps on hardwood, a whisper of sound that feels like a pulse in my spine.

Erin emerges from the kitchen, curling up in the armchair across from us. Her hair is loose now, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She pulls her knees up, tucking her feet beneath her, and something about the easy way she watches us makes my skin buzz.

I drag my attention back to the game.

“Remember,” I tell Ris, nudging a white pawn forward, “knights are tricky. They move in L-shapes?—”

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