Take a Hint, Dani Brown (The Brown Sisters #2)(36)

In the end, he clicked away from the email. He didn’t delete it, though. He’d . . . think. He needed to think.

But not right now. Right now he answered more emails from press and cautiously interested schools, focusing on the progress he’d made, his overheated laptop burning his knees and a slow smile curving his lips. This publicity thing was working. It was really, actually working. And tomorrow he was going to touch Danika Brown, which he probably shouldn’t include on his mental list of accomplishments, except it definitely felt like an accomplishment, so—

A knock reverberated through the flat, jerking Zaf out of his thoughts. He closed his laptop, abandoning emails and Twitter notifications, and headed to the door, already knowing who it was.

“Evening, mate.” Jamal was like a river: calm, steady, and powerful enough to wear away mountains. As soon as the door opened, he wormed his way into the flat, went directly to the living room, plonked himself down on the sofa, and opened Zaf’s laptop.

“Yeah, make yourself comfortable,” Zaf muttered.

“Cheers. Put the kettle on.”

“Go fuck yourself. What are you doing here?” He sat down, then realized Jamal had already logged into the computer. “And since when do you know my password?”

“Bonkers, right?” Jamal deadpanned. “Who could’ve guessed your password would be Fatima2001?”

“Shut up.”

“And I’m here to take over your social media for a bit, since all your replies sound like they came from a waiter at the end of an eight-hour shift.”

“Oh, piss off,” Zaf said, but there was no heat in his voice. Jamal was right, and he was grateful for the assist. “Er . . . thanks.”

Jamal rolled his eyes and didn’t bother to respond. “By the way, Zafir—”

“Zafir? What, did I stack your cones up wrong or something?”

“—when were you going to tell me,” Jamal went on, “that you and Doctor What’s-Her-Face are pretending to date?”

“Never,” Zaf lied cheerfully. “But, since you mentioned it—who did tell you?”

Jamal looked shifty.

Zaf grinned. “Was it Kiran?”

“No!” The word was twice as loud as Jamal’s usual soft-spoken tone. He cleared his throat and said more quietly, “Why would it be Kiran?”

“Because you two have known each other for decades, but over the past few months you’ve been acting like you’ve never met.”

“What does that—”

“And every time I mention you in front of K, she blushes.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Jamal said immediately. Then he paused. “Does she? No, it doesn’t matter. Who cares? I don’t care. You’re being . . . you’re just . . . Don’t try to distract me. What’s with the fake-relationship bullshit?”

Zaf shrugged, trying to look casual. Unconcerned. The opposite of a man who was planning to sleep with his fake girlfriend. “It’s just a publicity thing. Fluffy gave me the idea. And it’s working, right?” He nodded at his emails.

“It is,” Jamal agreed slowly. “But . . . are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Well, not usually, but I get by okay.” So far as Zaf could tell, life was all about keeping an end goal in mind and sticking to—

Jamal blinked, slow and deliberate, which was code for Give me strength. “I meant with her. The woman.”

Oh. Zaf set his jaw and looked away. “Her name is Danika.”

“I know what her name is.” A flash of that familiar grin. “I just like making you say it so I can hear the adoration in every syllable.”

“Tonight I’m going to let myself into your house and smother you in your sleep.”

“Uh-huh. All I’m saying is, you’ve been half in love with her for, like, six months, so just be careful.”

“I’m not in love with her,” Zaf gritted out. Because he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. There were lines and boxes and sensible paths, and Dani was over the line and out of the box and in the middle of the woods, so no, he was not in love with her.

He just really wanted to sleep with her, and hold her hand, and keep her fed and watered while she worked late into the night, and sometimes he wondered what shampoo she used and how he could make all his pillows smell just like it, and he’d better not say any of this out loud because he didn’t think it would help his case.

“Liar,” Jamal said succinctly, clicking through Zaf’s emails.

Zaf stared. “What?”

“That’s your lying voice. It’s all tight and scratchy.”

“Who are you?” Zaf spluttered. “The bloody . . . voice police?”

“I hope next time you’re in the shower, you think of seventy things you could’ve said just then that would’ve been way better than ‘voice police.’ ”

“I hope next time you’re in the shower, you drown.” Although Zaf agreed that, at thirty-one years old, he should probably have developed better comebacks by now.

“Look,” Jamal sighed, meeting Zaf’s eyes with a seriousness that did not bode well. “You read a lot of books, so you probably don’t realize that in the real world, faking a relationship is actually an incredibly weird thing to do—”