Page 92 of The Pucking Arrangement

Ris’s voice snaps me back. She’s right—the edges are nearly black. I flip it quickly, scraping by on the save, but my head is still spinning.

Love.

The word beats through me like a war drum. A terrifying, inevitable march toward something I can’t control. Like watching the perfect shot sail toward the top corner—you know exactly where it’s going, but there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it.

“Can I have more whipped cream?” Ris asks, already reaching for the can.

“Just a little,” I say automatically. Upstairs, Erin is probably getting dressed. Probably still warm from my bed. Definitely still marked by my hands. By my come.

Der’mo.

She has dreams. Big ones. The kind that light up her whole face when she talks about them.Tanglewood. Her YouTube channel. International tours. A future as limitless as she is.

And me? I’m a complication. A man with a six-year-old daughter and a career that keeps me on the road. The kind of life that makes relationships hard work.

“Papa?” Ris’s voice is small. “Are you okay? You look sad.”

I force a smile, reaching over to smooth her hair, wild and tangled. “Not sad, Amnushka. Just thinking.”

“About Erin?”

My hand stills mid-motion. “What makes you say that?”

She gives me a look that’s pure Elena—sharp, knowing, no-nonsense. “Because you look at her the way Prince Eric looks at Ariel.”

“How’s that?” I ask weakly.

“Like she’s magic.”

Out of the mouths of babes.

“She is kind of magical, isn’t she?” I say softly, more to myself than to her.

Ris nods, as if this is obvious. “Can she stay with us? Forever?”

The question cracks something in my chest. Because that’s the real issue, isn’t it? The one I haven’t let myself touch since I woke up with Erin’s mouth on me, since I watched her smile in her sleep, since I realized I want every morning to start with her.

“It’s complicated, Amnushka.”

“Why?” She frowns. “She makes you happy. She makes me happy.” She takes another bite of pancake, thoughtful. “And she likes us too. I can tell.”

If only it were that simple.

“Sometimes,” I pause, searching for words a six-year-old might understand, “people have different dreams. Different paths.”

“But why can’t her path be with us?”

Footsteps on the stairs make us both look up.

And there she is.

Solnyshko. My little sun, lighting up the room just by existing.

Her hair is damp from the shower, curling around her shoulders. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts, the hem brushing mid-thigh, exposing smooth legs that are way too distracting for this early in the morning. She looks soft, sleep-warm, utterly at home in my kitchen.

“Something smells amazing,” she says, padding toward us, her bare feet making no sound against the hardwood.

“Papa made chocolate chip pancakes!” Ris announces. “Want some?”

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