Page 64 of The Pucking Arrangement

I slip into my workout gear as quietly as possible. The house creaks softly around me—old wood settling, pipes humming, the familiar symphony of pre-dawn. No sign of movement from down the hall.

What do you even say to someone after almost jumping them in a museum?

Sorry I basically propositioned you in front of ancient Greek art. Your daughter’s cello lessons are still on, right?

The stairs don’t make a sound as I creep down them, thanking whatever architect decided on solid construction. Just a quick workout, then maybe a shower, and I can figure out how to act normal.

Pretend we never had that conversation.

I stop dead at the bottom of the stairs.

Light spills from beneath the gym door, cutting through the early morning dim.

My pulse spikes.Because there’s only one person who would be up this early.

And he’s exactly who I spent all night trying not to think about.

I should turn around. Go back upstairs. Wait until a more reasonable hour when I’m better equipped to handle Dmitri Sokolov.

Instead, my hand grips the door handle.

Because apparently, I have zero survival instinct.

I step inside, and?—

Oh.

Dmitri is at the bench press, bare-chested, sweat-dampened, all coiled power and explosive strength. His muscles flex as he presses the weight upward, slow and controlled, veins standing out against his forearms.

Breathing? Suddenly a very complicated task.

He doesn’t see me at first, too focused on his workout, but as he racks the bar and sits up, our eyes meet in the mirror.

A slow, searing drag of his gaze down my body, then back up again.

Here we go.

“Morning,” he rumbles, voice rough with exertion, thick with something else.

I manage something that might be “hi” and might be a squeak.Real smooth.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t say anything else. Just watches.Waiting.

I turn to my warm-up, pretending my hands aren’t shaking. Pretending I don’t feel his eyes on me, dragging over my body, heavy and unrelenting.

The silence between us isn’t empty.

It’s charged.

Like a live wire, humming, waiting to ignite.

My muscles feel tight. Uncooperative. Like they remember his touch from yesterday.

Like they want it back.

“You ran last night.” His voice punches through the silence, a low vibration against my skin. Not accusing. Just stating the facts.

I swallow hard, my eyes locking onto my reflection, onto the heat creeping up my neck.

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