Take a Hint, Dani Brown (The Brown Sisters #2)(39)
“Thank you,” Zaf finished softly. “For all of this. It’s ridiculous, I know it is, but it’s doing so much.”
He was so disgustingly sincere. Dani must be allergic, since every time he thanked her with those big, puppy dog eyes, it made her feel hot and flushed and jittery inside. “Never mind all that,” she said briskly. “Do you need me to come?”
Zaf rolled his lips inward. “They asked if you would, obviously. But I told them you’re busy, so . . .”
She was busy, horribly busy preparing for the symposium—last night she’d woken from a fever dream in which Inez Holly had asked her a question about an obscure Afro-Swedish theory on intersectionality in late nineteenth-century literature, and Dani hadn’t been able to respond. She should be glad that Zaf didn’t need her company. And yet, she found herself asking lightly, as if it were a joke: “What, you don’t want me there? I’m wounded.”
He laughed a little, because, of course, she wasn’t serious. Of course she wasn’t. “You’re already doing a lot for me, Dan. I’m not about to start dragging you to interviews.” His voice lowered as he leaned in. “Or asking you to lie any more than we already are.”
All entirely noble points, but none of that was a no. And Zaf was the kind of man who knew how to say no when he wanted to.
Dani knew she should let this go. She was mere weeks away from the symposium and the accompanying terrifying panel discussion with Inez fucking Holly, for heaven’s sake! She didn’t have time to go gallivanting off on last-minute radio interviews with her fake boyfriend, even if it was for the good of the children and so on and so forth, and even if that fake boyfriend was her very real future fuck buddy. So, he was right. She shouldn’t come.
Except . . . Zaf clearly didn’t like being the center of attention. And when he was nervous, he became particularly, adorably intimidating, only no one else seemed to notice the adorable part. And, for fuck’s sake, he had anxiety. So, no, Dani wasn’t going to let him do this alone. That thought was so urgent, so vehement and intense, that it almost alarmed her—but this caring came from friendship, and friendship was just fine. Friendship was perfectly safe. It might hurt sometimes, but it had never crushed her heart and ruined her from the inside out.
For a moment, the slight hollow in her chest where laughing with Jo had once lived felt unbearably dark and shadowed. But Dani pushed that ache away.
“I’ll come,” she said.
Zaf looked startled, probably because she’d been silent for a good few minutes. Long, thoughtful pauses were a socially unacceptable habit Dani struggled to break, one she knew from past experience and blunt feedback made her seem strange and/or boring. Zaf never seemed to mind, though. He simply waited for her, and when she spoke again, he always spoke back as if the silence had never happened.
Like right now. “You’ll come?” he echoed. “But—”
“But nothing. Let’s do this properly.”
“You’re sure?” His expression was unreadable.
“I’m sure,” she said, despite the tiny voice in her ear that was screeching, What is happening here? What are all these warm, glowing sparks and why are none of them centered around my genital area?
The slight tension in Zaf’s shoulders melted away, and he gave her a huge, heart-stopping smile—the pesky kind that always made Dani want to kiss his nose (against her conscious will, that is). Then he made things a thousand times worse by sliding a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her close until the desk between them was less innocent plank of wood and more evil cock-blocking barrier, and pressing a kiss to her lips.
It wasn’t a hot, hard, passionate sort of kiss. It was a slow, soft, tender kiss, a not-quite-but-almost-chaste kiss, his lips parted but his tongue behaving itself. Sweet, warm pressure, a faint, comforting nuzzle, and then he pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. His were warm like caramel on the stove and cradled by smile lines.
“How many people,” he asked quietly, “know how kind you are?”
“I . . . um . . .” Dani swallowed befuddlement and willed away her blush. “I’m not.”
“Right,” he said dryly, and then he bumped their noses together, and her entire middle folded in half before melting everywhere like butter. We’re in public, she reminded herself harshly, which means this is all pretend.
Except, most days, Zaf couldn’t fake basic good cheer well enough to stop swearing while in uniform. He couldn’t even fake a smile. Which begged the question—
Don’t. Don’t ever beg that fucking question, or you might have to give up your first lay in months before you even get a ride. Security walls slammed up in a section of Dani’s mind, concrete thicker than Zaf’s thighs and higher than her heart rate every time he put his hands on her. Because feelings had wings, but Dani didn’t, and she wasn’t about to let herself chase a tiny bird clean off a cliff.
She didn’t even feel the urge. Not ever.
So she forced her focus back where it belonged and said, “Maybe after the interview we could . . .”
“I’ll come home with you,” Zaf said. No hesitation. Just hot, liquid lust.
CHAPTER NINE
That afternoon, Dani watered her plants, salt-watered her goddess, and hunted down a few online articles about Swedish literary criticism, just to be sure. She added a few pink sticky notes to her Wall of Doom, the mind map she’d created beside her desk that contained all her symposium research. Then she found a fascinating essay on race, gender, and the nineteenth-century new woman that she could include in her panel preparation, fell down a rabbit hole, and promptly forgot all her plans for the evening.