Take a Hint, Dani Brown (The Brown Sisters #2)(49)
But she wasn’t a stranger. She felt the rigidity of his hand against hers, and knew he was concentrating so it wouldn’t shake. She heard the rough edge to his voice, and knew he was uncomfortable speaking to so many listeners. She saw him rub a hand over his short, thick beard, and knew he’d probably planned this carefully, so carefully, but was still worried about the unpredictability of the format.
So Dani leaned into his side and pressed a useless, impulsive kiss to his shoulder. Then she wondered what the fuck she was doing and if she’d been briefly possessed by the spirit of a 1970s local politician’s wife.
Zaf looked down at her, flashing the ghost of a grateful smile that melted her middle like gooey chocolate. And suddenly, kissing his shoulder—faking casual affection, rather—felt like the smartest, most accomplished thing she’d ever done.
Which, considering her general excellence, was really saying something.
“And what about you, Dani?” Edison asked. “How are you coping with social media stardom?” He said the words with a wry irony she appreciated.
“It’s . . . quite sweet,” Dani said, which was an absolute lie. In reality, being a social media sensation for a week had started to feel slightly creepy. “I must admit,” she added with a laugh, “I could do without the comments from women who want Zaf for themselves. He’s otherwise engaged.” That was Fake Girlfriend Dani talking, obviously, not Actual Dani. Actual Dani didn’t care about that sort of thing because Actual Dani had no claim on Zaf whatsoever.
Something in her stomach lurched.
Zaf frowned down at her. “You shouldn’t read those.”
“And you should know very well by now, darling, that you can’t tell me what to read.” Although he was right, and after the third comment she’d come across describing how gross and bald she was, and how she and Zaf were disgracing and/or diluting their respective races, Dani had decided to return to her lifelong avoidance of social media. She was lucky Gigi had coached all the Brown girls on the nature of fame long ago, just in case any of them ever followed in her show-biz footsteps—or, alternatively, took part in The Great British Bake Off and got caught screwing Paul Hollywood in a field. That had been the example provided, anyway. Gigi was a firm believer in Paul’s raw, animal magnetism.
“Just so everyone knows,” Zaf grumbled, leaning closer to the microphone like an old man with a poor grasp on high-tech sound equipment, “I go through that hashtag every night and report anyone who says sh—stuff,” he corrected himself, his scowl deepening, “about Danika. Or about us being together. And if I see any of you—”
Dani squeezed Zaf’s hand and laughed loudly before he could threaten anyone with bodily harm on public record. He was clearly invested in the protective boyfriend role, because she could almost feel the heat rising off him. “Relax. What really bothers me is the hashtag itself. I’m not actually a doctor,” Dani said. “I’m a Ph.D. student. So Dr. Rugbae isn’t entirely accurate.”
Edison burst out laughing, though she had an inkling his amusement was more frantic gratitude that she’d changed the subject. “There’s a note for all our listeners—she’s not a doctor, she’s a doctor in waiting. Academic types are strict about this.”
Her cheeks heated. Wasn’t everyone strict about factual accuracy? They should be, anyway.
Edison chuckled some more, then moved on with impressive efficiency. “You two were filmed at work, during that famous fire-drill rescue. You’re in security now, right, Zaf?”
“That’s right.” Zaf still seemed vaguely annoyed that he’d been prevented from issuing threats, but he was clearly trying his best to sound pleasant and interested.
“That’s not all you’re up to these days, though, is it?”
Oh, lovely. Edison was steering things quite nicely, and once you got past the haunted eyes of a starved Victorian infant, he seemed a friendly and capable man. Dani smiled beatifically and kept her mouth shut as Zaf launched into an explanation of Tackle It, while Edison, bless his soul—he was growing on her by the second—asked all the right questions and delivered all the right prompts.
While Dani had planned to cast her mind elsewhere during this segment—there was only so much interest she could feign for anything rugby related—she found herself strangely fascinated by the discussion. Perhaps because Tackle It was less about rugby itself, and more about equipping young men with the tools to understand their emotions and express them beyond the boundaries of toxic masculinity. Or perhaps it was because Zaf lit up with passion as he spoke, and the gentle glow she’d always been drawn to now burned from his gaze like the sun.
He was . . . wonderful. Brilliant and bold, especially when he said things like “I love sports, of course I do—but the culture can easily become toxic. It’s not enough to say, That’s not me. Like, all right, nice one, but what are you doing to fight it?” She’d always known his grouchy grump routine hid an unexpected softness—but she was starting to notice something else in him, too, a steady core that radiated strength and peace and other cool, immovable things. She heard it echoing in his voice when he said, “You’d never tell an athlete to just get over a sprain; you’d give them time to recover, physical therapy, whatever they needed. Why are mental health conditions any different?”