Take a Hint, Dani Brown (The Brown Sisters #2)(65)

“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.”