Page 6

Chapter 6

Welcome to the Cold Shoulder

Erin

I knew this wouldn’t be easy.

Moving in with an insanely hot, brooding single dad who also happens to be my brother’s teammate? While maintaining professional boundaries despite the fact that his voice alone does unspeakable things to my nervous system?

Yeah. No problem. Piece of cake.

But I wasn’t expecting this.

Gone is the almost-playful man from last night—the one who softened when his daughter smiled, who let his guard slip for just a second. In his place is a walking ice wall, exuding do not engage energy like it’s his job.

Every attempt I make to lighten the mood gets shut down with a clipped command about schedules or timing.

And okay, maybe I wasn’t completely ready when he showed up. But in my defense, I was practicing. Some of us have graduation recitals coming up.

Also, who the hell looks that good in just a henley and jeans?

“Grab that box,” he orders, nodding toward one with a stack of my music books.

I bite my tongue to keep from suggesting full sentences , grab the box, and remind myself that I, too, can be professional. Mature and unaffected.

Except I completely misjudge the weight, and the damn thing nearly topples out of my arms.

Before I can recover, he’s there, large hands covering mine, steadying me effortlessly. Warm, rough palms, fingers curling around my wrists just enough to send a sharp jolt of awareness through my body.

Time stops.

His breath brushes my neck, and every nerve ending I own riots.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice gravel. His accent is thicker than usual.

I forget how to breathe .

My pulse skyrockets. My entire body is suddenly very aware that Dmitri Sokolov is touching me.

This must be what a heart attack feels like.

I need to never touch him again.

Then he’s gone, taking the box—and all my brain function—with him.

The drive is torture. I’ve endured painfully awkward silences before. Like the time I played the wrong movement at a conservatory recital and had to power through an entire allegro while the orchestra was expecting an adagio .

Or when my bow hair snapped mid-performance at a summer festival, leaving me on stage with a useless piece of wood in my hands.

But this? So much worse .

Dmitri hasn’t spoken since we left my apartment. He just grips the steering wheel like it personally insulted him, jaw clenched so tight I’m worried for his molars.

The late afternoon sun spills through the windows, turning the inside of the car gold, warming my skin despite the tension hanging thick in the air.

Not that I’m complaining about the view .

The light catches his profile just right, sharpening those cheekbones, making the faint stubble along his jaw look unfairly attractive. His forearms flex as he turns onto the highway, and heat coils low in my stomach.

Nope . Not going there.

Focus on anything else.

Like the fact that I’m about to spend three full weeks living with a man who apparently communicates exclusively in grunts and scowls.

The skating rink parking lot is packed, SUVs and minivans crammed into every available space. Inside, through the massive glass windows, tiny figures in sequined outfits glide across the ice, miniature Olympians-in-training.

Dmitri pulls into a spot and cuts the engine.

“Come.”

His first word in twenty-five excruciating minutes . But who’s counting?

Inside, the familiar rink chill wraps around me, mingling with the sharp scent of ice and the echoes of childhood memories. The sounds of my new reality fill the space—blades slicing over ice, high-pitched giggles, and the occasional thunk of small bodies discovering gravity.

Six little girls, all around Ris’s age, practice wobbly spins while their instructor gracefully glides, demonstrating perfect form.

And just like that, my crash course in Living with Dmitri Sokolov officially begins.

Then I hear a high-pitched voice.

“Dmitri! What a delightful surprise.”

A blonde goddess in head-to-toe Lululemon materializes beside us, all glossy highlights and a megawatt smile so precise it could cut glass. She radiates that particular brand of Westchester energy that says she has a standing appointment for everything—hair, brows, facials, probably even a soul realignment.

Beside me, Dmitri stiffens. “Melissa.” His voice drops ten degrees.

“We missed you at the parents’ meeting,” she purrs, sliding a perfectly manicured hand onto his arm like she’s claiming territory. My stomach flips—sharp, unexpected, and entirely unwelcome . “The fundraising committee desperately needs a strong male perspective.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Dmitri looks like he’d rather take a puck to the face than sit through a PTA meeting.

“Been busy. Playoffs.” He shifts his weight, stepping out of her reach like her touch might be radioactive.

Melissa doesn’t miss a beat. Her laser-sharp focus swings to me, her blue eyes scanning like a security system assessing a breach.

Who is she? Why is she here? Does she matter?

“And who’s this?”

“Ris’s temporary sitter,” Dmitri says, flat and dismissive.

Ouch .

Technically, he’s not wrong, but wow, way to make a girl feel like an afterthought.

Melissa’s smile sharpens. “How...sweet.”

She recalibrates, shifting back to him like I no longer exist. “You know, my son Jake adores hockey. He loves the Sunday coaching session with you.”

Wait. Dmitri coaches kids’ hockey? Why does that make my stomach flutter?

“ Da . He plays well. I will be there this Sunday. Team leaves Tuesday for away games.”

“Perfect!” She leans in slightly, voice dripping sugar. “Maybe afterward, we could discuss a playdate? Kaycee and Jake won’t stop talking about how much fun they had with Ris on Fire Island last summer. They’d love to have her over.”

“Ris has a full schedule.” Dmitri’s voice could cut through steel. Cold, clipped, final.

Melissa barely flinches. She just tilts her head, her practiced smile never wavering.

And before I can stop myself, the words are tumbling out.

“You know, I’m helping coordinate Ris’s schedule while her regular nanny’s away. Maybe we could find a time that works for everyone?”

Dmitri’s head snaps toward me so fast I brace for whiplash. His eyes pin me in place, his mouth pressed in a firm line.

But I continue.

“It might be nice for Ris to hang out with friends,” I add lightly, keeping my voice even.

His jaw works, tension rippling through him like he’s debating a battle strategy. Finally, through gritted teeth, “We could...discuss options.”

Melissa beams, victorious. “Wonderful! Here, let me get your number?—”

“Give to Erin.” Dmitri cuts in smoothly, his voice firm and detached. “She handles the arrangements.”

Handles the arrangements? Like I’m his personal assistant instead of just the nanny?

Melissa doesn’t seem to mind. She taps her number into my phone with the practiced efficiency of a woman who always gets what she wants. But as she hands it back, I catch Dmitri watching me.

And for a split second—just a flicker—his expression slips.

Is it surprise? Annoyance? Something that almost looks like approval?

Then, “Come.” His tone is gruff as he gestures toward the boards, already shifting his attention back to the ice. “Let’s watch Ris’s class.”

I throw Melissa an apologetic wave, then trail after Dmitri.

As we head rink-side, I swear I hear him mutter something in Russian under his breath—something low, rough, and filthy sounding.

But before I can ask, a high-pitched voice cuts through the chilly air.

“Papa! Erin!”

Ris spots us and waves enthusiastically, then immediately topples, her skates flying out from under her. She hits the ice in a heap of sparkly fabric and flailing limbs.

My heart leaps into my throat, but before I can so much as gasp, she’s already giggling, pushing herself back up like it never happened.

“She is tougher than she looks,” Dmitri murmurs, something warm and quiet threading through his voice. Pride. Love.

“Like her dad?” The words slip out before I can stop them, and when I glance up at him, I catch an unguarded flicker in his eyes, making my stomach flip.

Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. The walls slam back into place, his spine straightens, and his voice turns brisk. “You should learn the rink layout. Bathrooms. Emergency exits.”

And just like that, Commander Grumpy is back.

The tour is…unnecessarily thorough. Like, I-could-evacuate-this-place-in-my-sleep level thorough. But I follow him anyway, trying very hard not to notice how every mom in the building tracks him like he’s the main character in their collective fantasy.

Can’t blame them, really. The man has the whole brooding, overprotective, romance novel hero thing down to a science.

By the time we make our way back, Ris’s class is wrapping up. The second her coach dismisses them, she rockets toward us like a tiny, tulle-covered missile, her skates barely touching the ice.

Dmitri intercepts her effortlessly, lifting her into the air like she weighs nothing. She shrieks with laughter, her arms locking around his neck as she practically vibrates with excitement.

“Papa, did you see?” she gasps. “I did a full spin without falling!”

“Very good, Amnushka.” His voice softens. Warms. His scowl disappears entirely, replaced by tenderness.

“Erin, you’ll watch next time too?” Ris grabs my hand, her small fingers curling around mine like she’s already decided I belong to her.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, meaning it, and she grins brightly.

The drive home is quiet, winding through tree-lined streets bordered with elegant brownstones and old money mansions. When Dmitri finally turns into a circular driveway, the house comes into view—classic, sprawling, and undeniably beautiful.

It’s the kind of place that whispers history.

But inside, it’s warmth. I expected something sleek and impersonal—cold marble, modern furniture, blank walls. Instead, the space feels rich with life. Plush rugs in deep jewel tones soften the floors. Bookshelves line the walls, overflowing with titles in English and Russian. Artwork covers the hallways—ballet dancers mid-leap, drawings of musicians frozen in passionate performances.

It’s beautiful.

It’s them.

Dmitri shrugs out of his jacket. “Your room is upstairs. Second door on the right.”

“Can I show her my room?” Ris interrupts, practically bouncing on her toes. “Please, Papa?”

“Let her settle in?—”

“Come on!” She grabs my hand, dragging me toward the stairs before Dmitri can finish his sentence.

Her room is a little girl’s dream. Soft pink walls, fairy lights draped along the ceiling, a window seat piled high with pillows. Sparkly dresses hang beside skates, and stuffed animals are carefully arranged in neat rows, each one obviously loved.

“And here’s where you’ll stay!” she announces, yanking me toward the next door.

The guest room is spacious, decorated in calming blues and creams, with a massive bed and big windows that overlook the quiet street below.

“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.