Take a Hint, Dani Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  “Anyway,” she continued, “you sleep half on top of me and you’re too heavy to push off, so I couldn’t sneak away if I tried.”

  He burst out laughing.

  She crawled out of his lap and back to her stack of books—which, he now realized, were romance novels. Ones he recognized. Zaf frowned at the familiar spines as she said primly, “Since you raised the topic of anniversaries—”

  “Oh, yeah. Since I raised it.”

  “Shut up. Here.” She picked up the first book in the pile and shoved it at him.

  Zaf blinked down at the cover and wondered if Dani had forgotten he already owned this. It was one of his favorites, although, in fairness, he hadn’t seen it for a while. Thought he’d lost it or something.

  Then he eyed an old scuff on the corner and realized this was literally his book.

  “Er . . . thanks, sweetheart,” he said. He meant it, too. It was sweet that she’d decided to go against her weird theories about temporal markers in relationships as an unnecessary source of external validation, or whatever, even if she’d done it by . . . gifting him his own book.

  “I was trying to write you a letter,” she said, waving her paper around. “I’ve been working on it for hours. I thought I could finish it before you got home, but then you returned disgracefully early—”

  “Pretty sure I didn’t.”

  “Don’t split hairs, darling. The point is, it’s not my finest work, but it’ll do.” She handed the paper over with a grimace. He looked down at the few lines she’d written and wondered if it was possible to pass out from adorableness overload. Then he actually read the words and decided that, if it was possible, he was in serious danger.

  Dear Zaf,

  I suppose you were right about this anniversary rubbish. On the one hand, it seems twisted to celebrate the growth of your embryonic connection to another, ultimately fallible human being, but on the other, I enjoy finding excuses to make you happy. And I suppose it is quite nice that I’ve had you for a whole year. I love you. Also I have been systematically stealing, defacing, and hiding some of your favorite paperbacks for almost the entire length of our relationship. Hope that’s all right.

  Danika

  He read that last part with a frown and looked up. “I love you, too. Seriously. A lot. But I’m not sure I understand what you mean about the books.”

  Dani pursed her lips and rubbed her hands over her thighs. Nervous. She was still nervous, even after she’d given him the letter. “I considered buying brand-new copies to be signed, but that seemed silly. Then you’d have multiple copies of the same book, and we barely have enough shelf space as it is, and—”

  “Signed?” Zaf cut in, and picked up the book again, flipping it open. There it was, right on the title page:

  For Zaf.

  And then a signature. From one of his favorite authors.

  He stared at it for a moment in disbelief. Then he took another book, and another, and opened each one, and saw . . .

  “When did you do this?” he murmured, flicking through them all. “How did you do this?”

  “I began eight months ago, with some copious research,” Dani said, “and identified the authors amongst your favorites who were likely to assist in a romantic gesture—which was, unsurprisingly, almost all of them. I went with Eve to a few conventions—”

  “You told me she was forcing you to do that!”

  “Ha. I’m sure she would rather have gone with one of her book-club friends, but I had a task to complete. Other than the authors I met in person, I have been in correspondence with a few for some time, and used Gigi’s many creative connections to persuade the rest.” She paused her matter-of-fact recitation and flicked him an uncertain look, one that wrapped around his heart like a fist and squeezed. “I don’t want presents, you understand.” He believed her. She looked mildly horrified by the idea. “I’m very pleased with dinner and I’m very pleased with you. And maybe anal, since we’re celebrating,” she added thoughtfully.

  “Noted,” Zaf murmured, still feeling dazed.

  “But what I really wanted was, erm . . . I suppose, to do something that would make you . . .” She trailed off with a slow smile, then pointed at his face. “Yes. That. I wanted to do something that would make you look absolutely thrilled. So, mission accomplished.” She clapped her hands and beamed, clearly impressed with herself.

  “Dan,” he said slowly. “You didn’t . . . you didn’t have to do this.”

  “I know.” She came to kneel in front of him, her hands on his shoulders. When their eyes met, he saw a fierce, burning love in hers that reflected everything inside of him, and when she spoke, he heard it in her voice. “I know I didn’t have to do this, Zaf. I never have to do anything with you. But you make me want to. You make me feel like myself, and you make me feel like I’m enough, and you even make me feel like I would be just fine without you. The thing is, I don’t want to be without you, and so I don’t ever plan on it. We are going to have many more anniversaries, and you will continue to make me dinner, and I will continue to make you smile, and I believe that is what they call—”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Living happily ever after?”

  She nodded. “Sounds about right.”

  Acknowledgments

  This book had teeth and it sucked me dry. I flatter myself that it’s a fairly funny read, but imagine me crying and bleeding for every line of witty sarcasm and you’ll get the picture. I couldn’t have produced this bad boy without all the support I received from the lovely people in my life.

  Thanks first and foremost to my family for keeping me alive while Dani and Zaf spent months trying to kill me. Mum, Sam, Tru, I don’t know how you lived with me, but you did. Props. I owe you each a Coke.

  Thank you, of course, to my lovely agent, Courtney Miller-Callihan, and my editor, Nicole Fischer, who talked me off of many authorial ledges and gave me exactly what I needed, when I needed it. If it weren’t for the both of you, I probably would’ve rewritten this book ten times instead of three.

  Thank you to the incredible team at HarperCollins for all of your support, and to Georgina Kamsika and Aimal Farooq for helping me represent a culture not my own. I hope I did the Ansaris justice.

  Finally, thank you to Kenya Goree-Bell, Layla Abdullah-Poulos, Mina Waheed, Therese Beharrie, Ali Williams, Yusra, Yasmin, Chiara, Umber, and Laila for your invaluable advice and encouragement.

  Also, thank you to Bree Runway for “2ON,” the motivational bop of the century.

  An Excerpt from Eve’s Book

  Don’t miss the next steamy, fun romantic comedy from Talia Hibbert . . . The last Brown sister finds love in Spring 2021!

  Read on for a sneak peek at Eve’s book . . .

  Chapter One

  Eve Brown didn’t keep a diary. She kept a journal. There was a difference.

  Diaries were horribly organized and awfully prescriptive. They involved dates and future plans and regular entries and the suffocating weight of commitment. Journals, on the other hand, were wild and lawless things. One might abandon a journal for weeks, then crack it open one Saturday evening under the influence of wine and marshmallows without an ounce of guilt. A woman might journal about last night’s dream, or her growing anxieties around the lack of direction in her life, or her resentment toward the author of the thrilling Ao3 fanfic “Tasting Captain America,” who hadn’t uploaded a new chapter since the great titty-fucking cliffhanger of December 2015. For example. In short, journaling was, by its very nature, impossible to fail at.

  Eve had many journals. She rather liked them.

  So, what better way to spend a lovely, lazy Sunday morning in August than journaling about the stunning rise and decisive fall of her latest career?

  She got up with a stretch, clambered off of her queen-sized bed, and drew back the velvet curtains covering her floor-to-ceiling windows. With bright, summer light flooding the room, she tossed off her silk headscarf, kicked off the overnight tea tree and shea foot m
ask socks she’d slept in, and grabbed her journal from her bedside table, leafing through the gold-edged pages. Settling back into bed, she began.

  Good morning, darling,

  —The journal, of course, was darling.

  It’s been eight days since Cecelia’s wedding. I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner, but you are an inanimate object, so it doesn’t really matter.

  I regret to report that things didn’t go 100% to plan. There was a bit of a fuss about Cecelia’s corset being eggshell instead of ivory, but I resolved that issue by encouraging her to take a Xanax from Gigi. Then there was a slight palaver with the doves—obviously, they were supposed to be released over Cecelia and Gareth for the photographs, but I discovered just before the ceremony that the dove’s handler hadn’t fed them for two days so they wouldn’t shit all over the guests. I may have lost my temper and released them all. Unfortunately, the handler demanded I pay for them, which I suppose was fair enough. It turns out doves are very expensive, so I have had to request an advance on my monthly payment from the trust fund.

  Finally, Cecelia and I have sadly fallen out. It seems she was very attached to the idea of the aforementioned doves, and perhaps her tongue had been loosened by the Xanax, but she called me a selfish jealous cow, so I called her an ungrateful waste of space and ripped the train off her Vera Wang. By accident, obviously.

  Knowing the lovely Cecelia as I do, I’m sure she’ll spend her Fiji honeymoon badmouthing my services on various bridezilla forums in order to destroy my dream career. Obviously, the joke is on her, because I have no dream career and I have already erased Eve Antonia Weddings from the face of the earth. And Chloe says I lack efficiency!

  Hah.

  Eve finished her entry and closed the journal with a satisfied smile—or else, a smile that should be satisfied, but instead felt a little bit sad. Hm. Apparently, she was in a mood. Perhaps she should go for a walk, or read a romance novel, or—

  No. Breakfast. She must begin with breakfast.

  Decision made, Eve chose her song for the day—“Rain on My Parade,” to cheer her up—hit Repeat, and popped in one of her AirPods. Soundtrack established, she got up, got dressed, and headed down to the family home’s vast marble-and-chrome kitchen, where she found both her parents in grim residence.

  “Oh dear,” she murmured, and stopped short in the doorway.

  Mum was pacing broodily by the toaster. Her pale blue suit made her amber skin glow and really highlighted the fiery rage in her hazel eyes. Dad stood stoic and grave by the Swiss coffee machine, sunlight beaming through the French windows to bathe his bald, brown head.

  “Good morning, Evie-bean,” he said. Then his solemn expression wavered for a moment, a hint of his usual smile coming through. “That’s a nice T-shirt.”

  Eve looked down at her T-shirt, which was a lovely orange color, with the words SORRY, BORED NOW written across her chest in turquoise. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “I swear, I’ve no idea where you find—”

  Mum rolled her eyes, threw up her hands, and snapped, “For God’s sake, Martin!”

  “Oh, ah, yes.” Dad cleared his throat and tried again. “Eve,” he said sternly, “your mother and I would like a word.”

  Wonderful; they were in a mood, too. Since Eve was trying her best to be cheerful this morning, this was not particularly ideal. She sighed and entered the kitchen, her steps falling in time with the beat of Barbra’s bold staccato. Gigi and Shivani were at the marble breakfast bar across the room, Shivani eating what appeared to be a spinach omelet, while Gigi stole the occasional bite in between dainty sips of her usual Bloody Mary smoothie.

  Unwilling to be contaminated by her parents’ grumpiness, Eve trilled, “Hello, Grandmother, Grand-Shivani,” and snagged a bottle of Perrier from the fridge. Then, finally, she turned to face Mum and Dad. “I thought you’d be at your couples’ spin class this morning.”

  “Oh, no, my lovely little lemon,” Gigi cut in. “How could they possibly spin when they have adult children to ambush in the kitchen?”

  “I know that’s how I approach disagreements with my twenty-six-year-old offspring,” Shivani murmured. When Mum glared in her direction, Shivani offered a serene smile and flicked her long, greying ponytail.

  Gigi smirked her approval.

  So, it was official; Eve was indeed being ambushed. Biting her lip, she asked, “Have I done something wrong? Oh dear—did I forget the taps again?” It had been eight years since she’d accidentally flooded her en suite bathroom badly enough to cause a minor floor/ceiling collapse, but she remained slightly nervous about a potential repeat.

  Mum released a bitter laugh. “The taps!” she repeated with frankly excessive drama. “Oh, Eve, I wish this issue were as simple as taps.”

  “Do calm down, Joy,” Gigi huffed. “Your vibrations are giving me a migraine.”

  “Mother,” Dad said warningly.

  “Yes, darling?” Gigi said innocently.

  “For God’s sake,” Mum said . . . rage-ing-ly, “Eve, we’ll continue this in the study.”

  The study was Mum’s office, a neat and tidy room on the ground floor of the family home. It had an atmosphere of focus and success, both of which Eve found singularly oppressive, and the only comfortable chair in the room was the vast leather one behind Mum’s desk. Of course, Mum sat in that particular chair, Dad standing behind her like a loyal henchman, which left Eve to perch on the edge of the stiff-backed guest seat opposite. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions, physically or metaphorically.

  “Where,” Mum asked, straight to the point as always, “is your website?”

  Eve blinked. She had, in her time, owned many websites. Her oldest sister, Chloe, was a web designer, and Eve had always been a loyal client. “Erm . . .” Before she could formulate a response—a nice, precise one that covered all relevant information in exactly the way she wanted—Mum spoke again. That was the trouble with Mum. With most of Eve’s relatives, in fact. They were all so quick, and so uniformly relentless, their intellect blowing Eve about like dandelion fluff in a hurricane.

  “I directed my good friend Harriet Hains,” Mum said now, “to your business, because her daughter is recently engaged, and because I was so proud of the success you made of Cecelia’s wedding last week.”

  For a moment, Eve basked in the glow of that single word: proud. Mum had been proud. Eve had, for a day, achieved something her brilliant and accomplished mother valued enough to deem it a success. Giddy warmth spread out from her chest in cautious tendrils—until Eve got a grip and clamped firmly down on those rogue emotions. Any external source of validation that affected her so intensely was not to be trusted.

  She had planned Cecelia’s wedding, and now she was done with it. Simple as that.

  “Harriet told me,” Mum forged on, “that your website URL led her to nothing but an error message. I investigated for myself and can find no trace of your wedding planning business online.” Mum paused for a moment, her frown turning puzzled. “Except a largely incoherent forum post claiming you stole an entire bevy of white doves, but that is an obviously unhinged accusation.”

  “Obviously,” Eve agreed. “I paid for those doves, that lying cow.”

  Mum gave a glacial stare. “I beg your pardon, Eve Antonia Brown.”

  “Let’s focus on the issue at hand, shall we, love?” Dad interjected. “Eve. What’s happened to your business?”

  Ah. Yes. Well. There was the rub. “The thing is, Dad, Mum . . . I have decided that wedding planning isn’t for me after all. So, I dissolved the business, deleted the website and disconnected the URL, and closed down all associated social media accounts.” It was best, Eve had found, to simply rip off the bandage.

  There was a pause. Then Mum said tightly, “So you gave up. Again.”

  Eve swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. The cadence of that single word, the world of disappointment in Mum’s voice, made her feel small and cold and trapped. “Well, no, not exactly. It was just
an experience I stumbled into—Cecelia’s original wedding planner was rubbish, so—”

  “She was an ordinary woman who couldn’t deal with a spoiled brat like Cecelia Bradley-Coutts,” Dad cut in, frowning deeply. “But you could. You did. And you seemed to enjoy yourself, Eve. We thought you’d—found your calling.”

  A cold bead of sweat began to drip, slow and steady, down Eve’s spine. Her calling? Eve wasn’t the sort of woman who had callings. She was free and loose, thank you very much. It suited her disposition far better than—than—

  Than shoving everything she was and everything she had into a single dream, and failing, and hurting herself as punishment. There was a little demon in her head that lived for punishment. But that was okay; she knew how to outwit that demon now.

  What she didn’t know was how to explain all this to her parents. “It’s for my own good, really,” she began, light and airy. “Everything went suspiciously well—you know I probably couldn’t recreate such success again. Wouldn’t want to disappoint myself.”

  Dad stared, crestfallen. “But Eve. You’re disappointing us.”

  She flinched.

  “You can’t avoid trying at anything in case you fail,” he told her gently. “Failure is a necessary part of growth.”

  She wanted to say, That’s what you think. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t, because she wasn’t about to slice open years-old scars for them now. Mum and Dad didn’t need to know about all of Eve’s little imbalances. She handled things just fine.

  But clearly, her parents didn’t agree, because Mum was shaking her head and saying, “Enough is enough, Eve. You’re twenty-six years old, perfectly intelligent and absolutely capable, yet you waste time and opportunities like—like a spoiled brat. Like Cecelia.”

  Eve sucked in an outraged breath. “I am not spoiled!” She thought for a moment. “Well, perhaps I am mildly spoiled. But I think I’m rather charming with it, don’t you?”