Page 32 of The Pucking Arrangement

“You’re really good at this,” Erin says softly, and like a fucking idiot, I look up.

She isn’t watching the board. She’s watching me.

The warmth in her eyes, silent and unreadable, punches through every wall I’ve erected.

“Erin should play too!” Ris announces, practically bouncing on her seat. “Papa can teach you! Here, sit next to him?—”

“Oh, I don’t know how,” Erin starts.

“Papa’s the best teacher,” Ris insists, already shifting pieces to make room. “Please?”

My daughter, the instigator.

Erin hesitates, then unfolds herself from the chair, each step closer winding the tension tighter. When she sinks onto the sofa beside me, her thigh presses against mine—warm, distracting, lethal. Every muscle in my body goes rigid, like I’ve just taken a clean, open-ice hit. Then her gaze flicks down. Lingers. A quick, sharp inhale.

Heat licks up my spine.

She snaps her attention back to the board, but I’ve already seen it. And now I can’t think of a single goddamn move except the one I want to make on her.

“The basics are simple,” I manage, though my brain is very much notfocused on chess right now.

She smells like vanilla. Like warmth. Like trouble.

“Each piece moves differently,” I continue, reaching for the queen to demonstrate—just as she does the same.

Our fingers collide.

A sharp jolt shoots up my arm, like static shock, only deeper. She jerks back, but not before I catch the hitch in her breath.

“Sorry,” she murmurs.

I should let it go. Should ignore the way her voice sounds softer now, like I’m the only person in the world she’s speaking to.

Instead, I force myself to keep talking. “The queen’s the most powerful piece,” I say, my voice a pained rasp.Like you,my traitorous brain supplies. “She can move in any direction.”

“Like Mama could sing any note?” Ris pipes up.

The question lands like an anvil. The shift in the room is instant—heavier, full of ghosts. I feel Erin tense beside me, but instead of letting the moment close in, she does something unexpected.

“Your mama sang opera, right?” she asks gently. “Did she have a favorite character?”

“Amneris!” Ris beams, instantly perking up. “That’s who I’m named after! From Aida! Papa promised we’ll go see it at the opera someday.”

Erin smiles, something knowing and warm sparking behind her eyes. “I thought you might have been named after the Egyptian princess. A strong character.” She glances at me. “Perfect name for a girl who knows what she wants.”

My throat tightens, pulsing painfully.

Enough.

“Bedtime,” I announce abruptly.

“But Papa!” Ris pouts. “Erin hasn’t learned castling yet! And she needs to help with the bedtime story.”

I clench my jaw. Every part of me is screamingno.

But Erin is already standing, already smiling that soft, wrecking smile. “I’d love to help,” she says, her voice quiet but certain. “If that’s okay?”

No. It’s not okay at all. It’s the opposite of okay.

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