Take a Hint, Dani Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  He grunted. “Well. I listen in the car, mostly. Read at home.”

  Dani, in a shocking display of intelligence, repeated, “Romance novels. Actual romance novels. The novels. With the romance.”

  He gave her a flat, sharklike stare that sent another thrill of arousal down her spine, because apparently, she found him gorgeous even when he was annoyed. Possibly more so, in fact. “And?” His tone dared her to elaborate.

  “Oh, behave,” she said, her surprise blooming into curiosity. “What do you think I’m going to do, question your masculinity and tell you kissing is for girls?”

  After a moment, he admitted grudgingly, “Nah.”

  “Then what’s the murder glare for?”

  With complete seriousness, he told her, “This is just my face. I have a murder face.”

  But when she laughed out loud, his scowl faded, replaced by one of his little smiles. Usually, Zaf was handsome in a distant, angsty, man-on-TV sort of way. But when he smiled, even the tiniest bit? Then his kind eyes glowed like spilled ink by candlelight, and she found herself wanting to kiss the broad curve of his nose. In a purely abstract manner, of course. In reality, Dani would never do something so pointless. Faces were for sitting on, not for kissing.

  At least, that was her opinion. She wondered now, more than ever, what Zaf’s was. “Why do you read romance?” she asked, sounding a little like a drill sergeant or a police investigator. Oops.

  Zaf looked at her as if she’d asked if milk came from fish. “For the romance.”

  “The . . . romance.”

  “Yeah. People liking each other and talking about their feelings and living happily ever after.”

  Now she’d officially entered the realm of what the fuck. “You voluntarily read about people discussing their feelings?”

  “Yep.”

  “Let me rephrase that,” she said. “Why do you read about people discussing their feelings?”

  “If I was standing here with a thriller, would you ask me why I read about people murdering each other?”

  “Of course I wouldn’t. You have a murder face, not a feelings face.”

  It was his turn to laugh, the sound low and rich and unreasonably sexy. “Good point.”

  “It’s just, I would never have guessed you were a romantic.” This is what Dani said, but what she really meant was Oh, hell. You’re a romantic. She hated to question Oshun’s verdict, especially after asking for help in the first place—it seemed a tad ungrateful, slightly rude, et cetera—but really. A romance novel–reading undercover sweetheart who gave his jacket to umbrella forgetters without a second thought? This was her supposedly perfect fuck buddy? She usually preferred the unsentimental and disinterested type. “Fond of happily ever afters, are you?” she asked brightly.

  Zaf rubbed a hand over his beard, looking oddly pensive all of a sudden. “I’ve seen the alternative. That’s not the story I want for the rest of my life.”

  The words caught Dani unawares, heavy as stone, solemn as still water. A strange ache started beneath her rib cage. “Oh?”

  “Mmm.” He brushed the moment off with a barely there smile. “I mean, who doesn’t want to live happily ever after?”

  She studied him for a second, searching for another hint of that serious, hidden sadness. But she couldn’t find it, which meant he didn’t intend to share it again—and Dani wasn’t one to push. She certainly found it rather irritating when people pushed her.

  So she made herself smile back and say, “I’m more into happy endings, actually.” When Zaf stared at her in silence, she added, “That was a joke. You know. About orgasms.”

  “I know,” he said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I just thought you needed a minute to see how corny it was.”

  “Oh, wow. Wow. Someone’s feeling sassy today.”

  “Maybe you bring it out in me,” he said dryly, and took another bite of his sandwich. “So . . .”

  “So?”

  “Are we, er . . . going to talk about the elephant in the room?”

  For a moment, Dani was convinced he meant her raging theoretical hard-on for him. Perhaps he’d noticed her nipples stabbing the shit out of her bra, or maybe her unsubtle questions about his stance on romance had tipped him off. Eve read romance novels, so Dani had learned that the genre created positive romantic expectations in its reader. Maybe Zaf was about to gently inform her that he had higher hopes for his interpersonal connections than frequent snark sessions and casual access to Dani’s magnificent breasts. Which wouldn’t be the first time she’d heard such a thing.

  Then he raised his eyebrows and said, “The video?” And she realized she’d somehow veered down the entirely wrong track.

  “Yes. Yes.” She nodded like a bobblehead, shoving those strangely nervous thoughts under her mental bed. “The video—and your semi-secret identity, let’s not forget.”

  Zaf snorted. “Semi-secret identity? Really? That’s what we’re going with?”

  Dani chose to ignore him. “You know, I might’ve listened to you drone on about rugby more often if I’d known you had a professional interest.”

  “Would you, though?”

  She thought for a moment. “No, actually. Never mind.”

  His laughter faded far too quickly for her liking. “Listen—about the video. I just wanted to say, I’m really sorry. I probably didn’t need to carry you like that.”

  He was apologizing? Really? “Zaf, you do realize it’s not your fault that a few students had nothing better to do than film and theorize about two random strangers they saw exiting a building, don’t you?”

  “Well, yeah. But I don’t know if this kind of attention could get you into trouble, or—”

  “No. I already spoke to my supervisor, and she’s not remotely bothered by what she called ‘internet gossip.’ Apparently, the whole thing is irrelevant to her life and to the department in general. So please don’t worry about that.”

  “Good,” he said. “Good.” But he didn’t relax. If anything, she could almost see an edgy tension building around him, inflating like a balloon.

  “You don’t like this, do you?” she asked, because suddenly she couldn’t hold the question in.

  Zaf faltered. “What?”

  “People talking about you.”

  His gaze met hers, a hint of surprise flashing in the dark. “No. No, not really. Some things are fine, but others are off limits, and people never know where to draw the line. Doesn’t help that I—” He broke off, pressing his lips tightly together as if to trap the rest of that sentence.

  “That you what?” She wanted to know because she’d always been horribly curious by nature, not because the exhaustion in his voice dug talons of worry into her heart or anything. God, no. Unless that was an ordinary feeling for work friends to have toward each other, in which case, yes, talons ahoy.

  “That I have anxiety,” he finished, his jaw tense. “I like to think I have some control over my life. Makes things easier. But you can’t always control what people say.”

  “No,” she said softly. “You can’t. The only thing you can control is what you do, and the things you do are frequently . . .” Lovely. But that was a disgusting thing to say. “Good,” she finished, rather pathetically. “The things you do are good. So. At least there’s that. I’m sure it doesn’t help much, when you’re . . . thinking . . . anxious things . . . but—at least there’s that.”

  He watched her with a slow, quiet smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the warmth of his expression spilling over her like sunlight. “Good, am I?”

  Oh, God. Oh, Christ. Couldn’t some passing, kindhearted citizen just bludgeon her to death?

  But then Zaf’s gaze softened, and he said, “Thanks,” and Dani’s passionate wish for oblivion lessened, just a bit.

  Still, it was time to move on before she said anything else ridiculous. “Since we’re on the subject—”

  “I can’t wait to hear what completely unrelated subject we�
�re supposedly on,” Zaf murmured, because he was a bastard.

  “Why don’t you tell me about this charity you run?”

  Which is how she discovered that there was one topic grumpy, guarded Zafir was perfectly willing to discuss at length and without sarcasm. He lit up when he spoke about Tackle It, as if there were a tiny fire burning inside him, and making kids face their feelings on the rugby pitch fanned those flames. He described his week-by-week program, and she realized she’d never seen him so passionate before. He admitted he’d gone back to college to get qualifications in sports and psychology, and she realized she’d never seen him so focused. He muttered, “It’s not exactly successful, though. Yet,” and she realized she might actually kill to protect all of Zaf’s hope and tentative ambition and quiet, careful drive.

  “Yet,” she repeated. “But soon. Aside from which, I’m sure your past must help.”

  He looked up at her sharply. “What?”

  “All your, er, rugby contacts and what have you. That sort of thing’s got to be a leg up.”

  He looked strained. “I don’t like to rely on that. There are things in my past I’d rather not bring into the present. So I drew a line under it all.”

  Snooping into the topics that made people turn quiet and rigid was not one of Dani’s favorite pastimes; all too often, it ended with someone who’d previously seemed quite sensible blubbering all over you. So she had absolutely no idea why some rogue, instinctive part of her demanded she pepper Zaf with questions until he explained exactly what he meant, and why there were shadows in his eyes all of a sudden.

  Fortunately, he moved on before the urge could get the better of her. “Things are looking up since that video, though.”

  Dani’s eyebrows flew up. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Tackle It’s getting all kinds of attention. The thing is . . .” He shot her a look, one she couldn’t quite decipher, and shoved his hands into his pockets. But the flex of his muscular forearms told her those hands had curled into fists, out of sight. And the hard line of his jaw only confirmed that he was nervous.

  Why was he nervous?

  “The thing is,” he repeated, “it’s all because people think you and me are together. That hashtag, the couple goals thing . . .” He sounded so uncomfortable saying couple goals, Dani had to hold back her laughter.

  “It’s silly,” she agreed, “but if it’s helping, that’s a good thing. Isn’t it?”

  He looked up. “So you don’t mind? It doesn’t bother you?”

  “I don’t know,” Dani said slowly, exploring her own thoughts as she spoke. She knew she should be horrified, or at least uncomfortable—especially given her feelings on relationships. But she and Zaf weren’t actually together, so the usual, suffocating pressure that accompanied anything to do with attachment was absent. “No,” she said finally. “No, it doesn’t bother me.”

  He took a step closer, then another, until his coffee-and-citrus scent flooded her space and she couldn’t meet his eyes without tipping her head back. She was used to talking with him at the security desk, while he sat down. This was . . . not the same. Or maybe it was the way he looked at her, the urgent burn of his gaze, that made everything different.

  Either way, it was hot. Dani still had a few logical worries about romance novels and sweetness and expectations and blah blah blah, but right now, her vagina was pitching an intriguing idea: How about we trust the universe, stop second-guessing this, and take the fucking hint?

  “The thing is,” Zaf was saying in that low, smoke-and-whiskey voice, “I had this idea. It’s a ridiculous idea, but it’s still an idea, and it—it would help me a lot. Help Tackle It a lot.”

  She hovered closer to him as if hypnotized. An idea that would help his charity? His charity for children? Yes. Wonderful. Fascinating. Almost as fascinating as watching his lovely mouth move. “Tell me.”

  “What if . . .” He hesitated, then pushed on, fast and firm. “What if we let people think we’re together?”

  * * *

  As soon as the words left his mouth, Zaf regretted asking. It was as if letting them out of his head and into the light showed him, in painful detail, how ridiculous he was being. Or maybe it was Danika’s reaction that made him wince, the way she stared at him in silence for long, long moments.

  Shit.

  “Never mind,” he said gruffly. “I have no idea why I said that. Obviously you wouldn’t—I mean, we aren’t—so that would be—it’s just,” he went on desperately, because he should probably explain himself, “the Post sent me this message about some kind of feel-good local feature, and they asked about Tackle It, but I don’t think they’d want to do the piece if they knew we weren’t a couple, so . . .” So he’d lost his grip on good sense, apparently.

  Dani continued to stare, sinking her teeth into her lower lip. She was so close, closer than they ever got. He could see the texture of her lips, soft and plump and creased, could trace the smooth dip of her cupid’s bow with his gaze. Could drink in the velvet of her skin and the slight indent of a little scar on the bridge of her nose. He could smell her: she was warm skin and fresh fruit and the sweet smoke of blown-out birthday candles, delicious and a little confusing all at once.

  But now really wasn’t the time to lose his head over Danika’s hotness. He was supposed to be concentrating on taking back the fucked-up suggestion he’d just made.

  “It was a bad idea,” he said. “I know that. I’ve been reading too many romance novels. No one fakes relationships in real life.”

  “Faking a relationship,” she said slowly, as if she were turning the words over on her tongue, examining them as she spoke. “I thought that’s what you meant.”

  He searched her tone for amusement or annoyance or something, and came up completely blank. Studied her expression and saw nothing but that familiar thoughtfulness. He’d always liked the way she considered things, the way she learned them inside and out before expressing her thoughts, but right now it was fucking killing him. “Bad idea,” he repeated, trying to ignore the thud of his heart against his ribs. “Even if you wanted to, you probably couldn’t. You might be with someone. Or gay. Or both. Probably both. I never asked. I know you were dating that professor—”

  “You know about Jo?” For the first time, Dani sounded kind of . . . off. Upset, maybe.

  “I don’t know nothing about nothing.” Clearly. Zaf shoved the final bite of his sandwich in his mouth to shut himself up. In hindsight, he probably should’ve done that a good ten minutes ago.

  Her lips quirked, and the tension faded from her mouth, her shoulders. “Okay. Well, I’m not gay.”

  He swallowed. “Right.”

  “I’m bisexual.”

  “Got it.” He crushed his sandwich wrapper into a ball and reminded himself that just because Danika was into guys didn’t necessarily mean she was into security guards with the social skills of a fucking brick wall.

  “And, no, I don’t have a partner,” she went on. “I don’t do the commitment thing. Ever.”

  Well, shit. Zaf wasn’t exactly in a hurry to find a relationship—he had his own crap to deal with, and sometimes that crap seemed never ending. But he still valued commitment. He still envied old married couples. He still remembered the love his parents had had, the love his brother and Kiran had had, and wanted it despite the danger of loss. If commitment wasn’t for Dani, then she and Zaf weren’t for each other.

  So stop thinking about her like that.

  Yeah, yeah. Easier said than done. “Ever?” he repeated, trying not to sound too invested in her response. “Like . . . you don’t want to find some nice young, erm, person, and settle down and—?”

  “No,” she said, looking unusually severe all of a sudden, shadows obscuring the light in her eyes.

  “Are you, erm . . .” Right on time, he forgot the technical term he’d been looking for. “You don’t . . . get those . . . feelings?” he asked, then wondered why the fuck he was delving even deeper into what was cl
early personal shit. Like he hadn’t talked himself into enough holes today.

  But Dani didn’t seem irritated by the question—more by the topic itself. “Am I aromantic? Sadly, no. Coupledom simply doesn’t suit my constitution. Aside from which, I am entirely too busy for dating and ego-stroking and sharing my feelings and meeting people’s parents.” Her expression grew more and more disgusted with each item she listed. Zaf might have laughed, if something about her carefully disinterested tone wasn’t setting off alarm bells in his head.

  “Okay,” he said slowly. “But—you know that sharing your feelings is always important, right? Whether you do the romance thing or not.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “Is this part of your workshop? Are you going to make me throw a ball, too?”

  He sighed. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just describe rugby as throwing a ball.” He was also going to pretend that the cold weight of disappointment in his belly had nothing to do with his personal feelings for Danika Brown. He was only bothered by all this because, if she had no time for a relationship, she wouldn’t have time to fake one. It had nothing to do with her smile, or how smart she was, or the fact that she brought him coffee no matter how busy she got, or anything else like that, because if it did, he might have to admit that his crush was a little bit more than a crush.

  It wasn’t, though. More, that is. Definitely just a crush.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “Okay. No relationships for you. You know what? Can we just forget about—?”

  “No relationships for me,” she interrupted, “which means that I’m perfectly free to fake date you.”

  It was a good thing Zaf had already swallowed the last of his sandwich, because if he hadn’t, he might be choking right now. “Erm,” he wheezed. “What? Wait, seriously? Danika. Are you fucking with me? Because—”

  “Yes.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Yes, you’re fucking with me?”

  “Yes, I’m serious. It’s a smart plan. My grandmother used fake relationships for publicity all the time.”