Take a Hint, Dani Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  All of this meant skipping her late-night study sessions, but within a few days, she was waking up earlier and more energetic in the mornings, so she supposed it all balanced out. Perhaps that was why her research for the panel had started going swimmingly, and why her nerves had faded, just a touch. Excellent sex had always worked wonders for Dani’s stress levels.

  Sorcha said as much on Tuesday afternoon, when she found Dani in the library and announced, “As your best friend, I think it’s high time I was introduced to your wonderful boyfriend.”

  Dani marked the page of her book and stared. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m tired of tracking your adorable dates through the Dr. Rugbae hashtag, so I thought I’d join you for lunch today.”

  Dani added some startled blinking to her staring, just to emphasize the sheer what-the-fuck-ness of all this. “First of all, Sorcha, I can’t introduce you to Zafir. You already know him.”

  “Barely.”

  “And second of all”—Dani lowered her voice to a whisper—“you do realize he and I are not actually . . .”

  “What I realize,” Sorcha said with a smirk, “is that you’re rather relaxed and glow-y, lately. Yesterday morning, you spent an hour discussing possible Game of Thrones endings with me instead of compulsively working, even though your panel is less than two weeks away—not to mention all the thesis work you’re keeping up with and the classes you have to teach. You’re seriously unclenching these days, which means—drum roll, please . . .”

  “You’re an evil cow and I hate you.”

  “Danika Brown is getting laid good,” Sorcha finished gleefully. “Amongst other things. Other mushy, happy things.”

  Dani had learned long ago that there was no reasoning with this woman, so she responded with silence.

  “Now, since you’re obviously super happy with Zaf—”

  “Sorcha, you know I am ethically and philosophically opposed to the idea of being happy with a person.”

  “—he is officially important to my best friend. And the rules are the rules. Meet him, I shall.”

  Dani pinched the bridge of her nose. “Zaf is not important to . . .” She’d been going to say, Zaf is not important to me, but that felt so horribly false she couldn’t force the words out of her mouth. “He’s no more important to me than—than—” She considered and discarded several options. My vibrator? My favorite mug? My laptop? My thesis manuscript? No, she must have taken a wrong turn somewhere and gone too far. Either way, Zaf couldn’t be any of the things Sorcha was patently insinuating, because the universe itself had pointed him out to Dani as a fuck buddy. Nothing more. What that man wanted, she simply did not have.

  “Zaf and I,” Dani tried again, wrenching her mind back on track, “are just—”

  Sorcha growled. “Meet him, I shall.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Fine.”

  When Dani showed up at the food court with a tiny, brown gremlin in tow, all Zaf did was arch an eyebrow and grunt, “Sorcha.”

  “Rugbae,” Sorcha purred with a shit-eating grin.

  They chose a food truck with surprisingly little fanfare, Sorcha prattling on as they waited for their subs, Zaf distracting Dani completely by going all . . . quiet. He was obviously listening as Sorcha spoke, his eyes focused and his nods coming at the right moment, but the sarcastic responses Dani had grown used to were replaced by a gruff, steady calm. He answered direct questions. He offered tiny, one-sided smiles. And that was it.

  Dani watched him all the way back to their table, wondering if perhaps he was horribly ill, or had dropped his attitude down a well and needed help to rescue it.

  Then Sorcha disappeared to find barbecue sauce (something about dunking over spreading; Dani preferred not to ask). As soon as they were alone, Zaf’s posture relaxed. That forbidding furrow between his eyebrows disappeared, and he flashed a smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and Dani’s brain melt at the edges. “So. Sorcha’s fun.”

  Oh. Something clicked into place. “I forgot,” Dani blurted, then wanted to kick herself.

  He raised his eyebrows. “What?”

  “I . . .” Well, she’d committed now; might as well reveal her creepy fluency in Zafir Ansari. Painfully glad that he couldn’t see her blush, she cleared her throat and said primly, “I forgot how you are around people you don’t know.”

  His eyebrows, if possible, rose higher. “Meaning?”

  She, if possible, blushed harder. “Meaning nothing. I just—I suppose I’m used to you being yourself around me. I’m glad—” No. Nope. Stop. Danika Alfreda Brown, stop fucking talking.

  But it was too late. Zaf’s eyebrows displayed previously undiscovered Olympic potential and rose even higher. His grin was unselfconscious and familiar, and in the midst of her embarrassment, Dani felt a rogue flare of pleasure that he was showing it to her. This man didn’t share himself with everyone, which was just fine, but he shared himself with her, which was—exhilarating. Fucking fantastic.

  Ah, the wonders of friendship.

  “You’re glad that what, Dani?” he nudged.

  “Shut up.” She sank vicious teeth into her sandwich.

  “Glad you flossed this morning?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Glad . . . you wore your favorite shoes?”

  How did Zaf know these were her favorite—? Oh. Because the other night, during one of their exhausted, babbling phone calls, she’d waxed lyrical about the blessed style-and-comfort combo of her suede block-heel ankle boots. The man absorbed information like a sponge. But she couldn’t allow herself to be impressed, not while he was currently ruining her life.

  “Glad . . .” He trailed off as if thinking, then leaned in closer, his arm sliding around her shoulders and his lips brushing her earlobe. She fought a shiver of pleasure and lost. “Are you glad, Dani,” he asked, his voice smoky, “that you know me?”

  She put down her sandwich. “Do you enjoy making me say hideous, unnecessary, and mortifying things?”

  His answer was instant, delivered with a smile. “Oh, yeah.”

  Dani was saved from crawling under the table and hiding there forever by the reappearance of Sorcha, who popped up out of nowhere and took a picture of them on her phone. With flash.

  “A close-up of the lovely couple,” she trilled. “I see a platinum tweet in my future.”

  Dani studied her lunchtime companions and wondered which of the two she should murder first.

  Perhaps they both sensed the silent threat, because Zaf slipped easily into fake boyfriend mode—which involved lots of secret smiles and very little emotional torment—while Sorcha zipped her lips and put her phone away. This newfound peace lasted for thirty blessed minutes. But the moment Zaf kissed Dani’s cheek and headed back to Echo, Sorcha’s bullshit began.

  “Hmm,” she said.

  Dani pointedly ignored her. “Do you think Zaf knows he left his muffin? Maybe I should go after him.”

  “Hmmmmm,” Sorcha repeated.

  Dani picked off one of the muffin’s chocolate chips and popped it in her mouth. “Or not.”

  “Hmmmmmmmm.”

  “Sorcha, darling, do you have something in your throat?”

  “Who, me?” Sorcha batted her lashes. “Not at all. I’m simply overwhelmed by Dr. Rugbae’s cuteness. All those meaningful looks, and the tender way he wiped milkshake off your nose . . . Adorable.”

  “Good,” Dani said, keeping her voice low. “It’s supposed to be.”

  “And why’s that?”

  Dani shot her a look. “You know why.”

  Sorcha snorted. “I know something.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Sorcha smiled and shrugged one narrow, black-clad shoulder.

  “You’re very irritating when you’re being enigmatic, did you know that? And”—Dani squinted—“are you wearing my Benetton jumper?”

  Sorcha waved a hand as if she could brush the question away. “You might as well eat that muffin. He
left it for you.”

  Dani looked down at the little cake. “What? No, he didn’t. I told him I didn’t have time for dessert.”

  “Because you’re very strict about your schedule when you’re stressed. But you’re also easily tempted out of said strictness when faced with the temptation of sweets, which Zaf clearly knows.” Sorcha leaned forward, an odd, almost excitable expression on her face. “So he bought it. And left it. For you. How does that make you feel, Danika?”

  Dani doused the flicker of warmth in her chest, pinching her own thigh beneath the table to ward off nonsensical emotions. “How does that make me feel? Is this some sort of therapy role-play?”

  “Are you pleased?” Sorcha prodded. “Are you happy that he bought you a muffin?”

  “I don’t think he did buy me a muffin,” Dani insisted, because if she allowed herself to think that he had—well. She didn’t know what would happen, but the giddiness blossoming in her stomach and the completely unauthorized smile tugging at her lips suggested it would be bad. Terrible. Mortifying.

  Foolish. If she let herself follow Sorcha’s thread, she would make a fool of herself.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Dani said firmly, and took a bite of the dessert because finders were keepers anyway. Through a mouthful of fluffy chocolate goodness, she mumbled, “For Christ’s sake, it’s only a muffin.”

  Sorcha huffed out a sigh and leaned back in her chair. “Oh sweet Lord, you have got to be kidding me.”

  “What is going on with you today?” Dani demanded.

  Sorcha rolled her eyes. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

  * * *

  For some reason, the muffin was still on Dani’s mind later that night.

  It was ridiculous, of course. Zaf had serious dadlike tendencies; she’d always known that. His habit of feeding her didn’t mean anything, and anyway, she didn’t want it to mean anything. He was her universe-mandated fuck buddy, and fuck buddies didn’t run around making gentle romantic gestures. Fuck buddies didn’t know or care that explicit expressions of affection gave Dani hives; nor did they find subtler, easier, low-pressure ways to make her feel special. Fuck buddies just . . . fucked.

  Zaf might be a hopeless romantic, but he wasn’t romantic about her. She was hardly his ideal. She was hardly his forever.

  Still, Sorcha’s waggling eyebrows nagged at Dani for hours.

  Perhaps she felt guilty for stealing the muffin, or maybe she couldn’t forget its particular yumminess. Whatever the reason, when she and Zaf lay panting in bed that evening, some sort of dessert demon took over Dani’s body. She turned to him and murmured, “I think I ate your muffin today.”

  He laughed, still slightly breathless. Then he nudged her in the ribs, a familiar tease that soothed the awkward tension in her belly. “Good. That was for you, you dork.”

  Shit. “Why?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why did I get you a muffin?”

  She nodded tightly.

  “Because I knew you wanted one.” When Dani remained silent, her feelings an uncertain tangle, he cupped her face. His thumb brushed her lower lip, and her cheeks warmed, even though he’d touched far more intimate places minutes ago. “Do I need a reason to make my friend smile?”

  Well, when he put it like that. “I suppose not,” she said on an exhale. Friends. That’s the way things were between them, and there was no danger in friendship, no pressure, no expectation. She’d been silly to worry.

  Because she had been worried. Most definitely. This hollow hunger in the pit of her stomach was . . . erm . . . relief.

  “Good.” Zaf ran his hand down her throat, over her collarbone. Cupped her breast, bent his head, kissed her there. “You’re so reasonable when we’re naked.”

  She smacked his shoulder. “Don’t get cocky.”

  “If I made a pun right now, would you throw me out of bed?”

  “Best not to find out,” she said dryly, and pushed his head back to her breast.

  Their phone call that night was slow and easy, almost as if Zaf had called just to talk instead of to prove he’d gotten home safe. Dani tried to mind, and failed. The pillow he’d lain on smelled just like him, and if she fell asleep with her arms wrapped tight around it . . .

  At least there was no one there to see.

  * * *

  Hi Zaf,

  I’m happy to inform you that our head teacher was as impressed by your work as I am. We’d love to have you teach a workshop to one Year Nine class and one Year Eleven class over the summer term. Please find a proposed schedule attached.

  Kind regards,

  Emma Cheung

  By the third week of their arrangement, and the second week of their, er, sexual arrangement, the scarlet flower of affection in Zaf’s chest—the one that was supposed to die—had multiplied. He was housing a brightly colored meadow, beautiful and dangerous.

  Every morning, he woke up and told himself, This is minor. This will pass. At least you’re not in love with her. And every night, he ran his hands over Danika’s skin, kissed the moans from her mouth, lost himself inside her, and pretended the squeeze of his heart was some kind of deadly arrhythmia, or a hallucination, or something he’d eaten. Anything but that reckless thing he was absolutely not allowed to feel. Anything but that.

  Weekends were the best and the worst. Best, because he couldn’t see Dani at work, didn’t have to spend his lunch worrying about how many of his reactions to her were just for show and how many were an overflow of affection. Worst, because trying not to pine over Dani might be uncomfortable, but waiting all day to see her was starting to feel like torture.

  Which couldn’t be a good sign.

  It was Saturday morning, a week before Dani’s symposium—and ten days until their fake relationship and their fuck-buddy status were both due to end. Just ten more days, he told himself, and you can start getting back to normal. Then he pulled out his phone and texted her, not because he needed to, but because his day would be a thousand times better once she replied.

  ZAF: Hey. Are you free tonight?

  She was always free, but he always asked. He kept it simple, though, kept it light. Wouldn’t want to come on too strong, or she might notice that he, you know, adored her beyond reason.

  Then again, he was starting to think Danika wouldn’t notice adoration if it smacked her in the face with a feather pillow, so he was probably safe. Kindness from someone other than her sisters or Sorcha left her baffled. Every time he asked how her day had gone, or fed her snacks while she prepared for her symposium instead of telling her to stop, she looked at him like he might be some lizard overlord wearing human skin. Then she shrugged and went on with her day, because, presumably, Dani didn’t have a problem with lizard overlords as long as they left her books alone.

  She must be buried in those very books right now, because the text he hoped for never came. In the end, Zaf spent his Saturday the way he usually did: taking the kids to a local league game with Jamal in the morning, bringing his mother vegetable pakoras at the shop, and listening to Fatima talk about a show called Fleabag for way too long. Then he went home, clicked through some promising emails, and thought about the one from Mac Stevens that he still hadn’t answered.

  It was past time he did something about this.

  Despite his subconscious fears, Zaf knew, logically, that there was no connection between his grief and the time he’d spent playing for the Titans. Blurring lines between past and present wouldn’t unravel all his progress or take him back to the dark place he’d been in when his family had shattered. Only one thing about pro rugby had made his experience worse: the part where his minor claim to fame led the press to swarm him like mosquitoes.

  But faking it with Dani had overwritten those memories with newer, lighter ones. This time around, he had control. He had the power. And something about that caused his fears to fade until they were blurry at the edges.

  Still, when he opened Mac’s email, he heard the thump of his pulse in his ears a
nd felt himself hesitate. Zaf sat with his anxiety for long, long moments, until his breathing slowed and he was calm enough to push past it. Fast. With gritted teeth.

  Yes, he told Mac, of course I remember you, and the family’s okay, what about yours? I . . . I can definitely offer the emotional workshop stuff without the coaching, if that’s what you need. We can work something out.

  Then Zaf hit Send, ran a hand over his beard, and realized he was grinning. Adrenaline flooded his veins like he’d just roared in a tiger’s face and come out unscathed. “All right,” he told himself, shutting the laptop. “Take five.” This called for a celebratory cup of tea or twelve.

  He was in the bathroom ten minutes later, humming under his breath and getting undressed for the shower, when Dani’s name lit up his phone.

  DANIKA: Not tonight. Currently drowning in my own blood.

  ZAF: ???

  She didn’t reply.

  Buttnaked, Zaf sat on the edge of his bathtub—shit, that was cold—and stared at the screen, waiting for her reply. Obviously, Dani wasn’t actually drowning in her own blood right now. Usually, when people were in the middle of something like that, they didn’t text about it. On the other hand, Dani wasn’t particularly usual, and she wasn’t texting him anymore, and he could definitely imagine her, say, trying to open a bag of Skittles with a kitchen knife, accidentally stabbing herself in the hand, and texting him about it shortly before passing out from blood loss.

  Fuck it. He hit Call.

  She picked up after a few seconds, sounding fairly healthy, if a little tired. “Hello?”

  Zaf sighed, closing his eyes and raking a hand through his hair. His heart pounded against his chest—and yes, he knew that was unreasonable, but he was always going to be himself. “Fuck’s sake, woman. I thought you were dying or something.”

  Her pause seemed to crackle with amusement. “And you thought this because . . .”

  “Because you—” He broke off. “Oh. Ohhhh. I see. Never mind. Got it.”

  He supposed he couldn’t blame her for laughing.

  “Zaf,” she gasped between giggles, “just to be clear—”

  “Yeah, I got it.”