Take a Hint, Dani Brown (The Brown Sisters #2)(72)

He held her closer, kissed her temple, and waited.

“I don’t let anyone else do the things you do for me,” she said. The words rushed out, all jumbled together, her awkwardness as obvious as it was adorable. “I don’t let anyone feed me or force me to take breaks or drag me outside to see the sun. And lately I’ve been thinking—what did I do before you? Did I just . . . not eat? Not sleep? Not breathe? I don’t even remember, like it was so unimportant my brain didn’t retain the information. But that’s not okay. Taking care of myself matters just as much as my work.”

“More than,” he said mildly.

“Don’t push it.” She pinched his side, then bit her lip, that mind of hers whirring so fast he almost felt the heat. “I love my job because it never demands more than I can give. But lately I think I’ve been offering too much. Like maybe I’ve forgotten . . . balance. So last night, that’s what Sorcha and I asked for. Balance.”

“That’s good, Dan,” he said softly. “That’s really good.”

She snorted. “It’s really good that, at twenty-seven years old, I’ve finally committed to eight hours a night and regular trips outside?”

“It’s good that you realize you’re more valuable as a person than an idea-machine.”

“Oh, gag.” She smiled—just the tiniest tilt of her lips, but it left him feeling as if he’d been knocked over the head with perfection. “I can tell this is your job. You’re very good at supportive pep talks.”

“You’re not my job, Danika. Not even close.”

Her eyes caught his for a second before easing away. “I know.”

If Zaf judged correctly, she’d just hit her weekly threshold for emotionally vulnerable conversation in the space of ten minutes. Still, he couldn’t let the moment fade, couldn’t take the truths she’d offered without sharing some of his own. “I’ve never really thought of Tackle It as my job, anyway.”

“Oh?” she murmured, and he caught a flash of gratitude for the slight subject change.

He shrugged. “Security is my job. Tackle It is . . . my dream, maybe. Or my duty. Or both. Something I can’t leave alone. Which is why I, er, changed the ‘About’ section on our website the other day and started altering the mission statement I put in our funding requests. Just to reflect my reasons for doing this. To mention that I went through loss, that I struggled with my own mental health. You were right, before,” he said, cupping her cheek. “I was worried about the mechanics of moving on, but that’s not who I am. Putting gold frames around my scars. That’s who I am.”

“I know,” she said again, this time with an incandescent smile. “I’m glad you know, too. I’m proud of you, Zafir.” Then she rose up on her toes and kissed his nose, and he thought he might never recover.



It turned out that a symposium was some big, academic event involving panels, presentations, research displays—all of that. Zaf stayed by Danika’s side for the first hour or so, and, even though he doubted #DrRugbae watchers would be in high supply here, she held his hand. If she weren’t stressed out as fuck, he’d have teased her for that—but she was. Stressed out as fuck, that is. So, as the minutes ticked by, he concentrated on keeping her calm. And when it was time for her to go, he caught her by the hips and kissed her with just a shadow of the devotion in his blood. When she pulled back, she was dreamy-eyed and smiling, as if she felt it, too.

Tell me you feel it, too.

“There we go,” he murmured, and tapped her chin.

“Fuck off,” she said crisply, and kissed his cheek.

When he took a seat in the audience, the place where she’d kissed him still fizzed, warm and alive. He breathed in, rubbed his hands over his face, wondered if the way he felt about her shone out from him like starlight. It was so bright and so fucking obvious, everyone in a five-mile radius must be able to see it. When someone tapped him on the shoulder, he turned, certain they’d say something like Wow. You’re a goner, huh?

But they didn’t. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with an excited-looking older man, a tall, lean guy with carefully combed wisps of gray hair and flushed pink cheeks. “You’re Zaf Ansari,” he whispered, “aren’t you?”

Zaf grunted and turned his attention back to Danika. There were three other women sitting at the table with her. Only one of them was black, so she was probably Inez Holly. Then he saw the nervous way Dani shifted in her seat, the awestruck glance she sent in the older woman’s direction, and decided that was definitely Inez Holly.

“I’m a big fan,” the balding, pink-faced man whispered in Zaf’s ear. “Supported the Titans all my life. I was really gutted when you left. I—”

“Shut up,” Zaf said. Professor Holly was short and compact, with graying, natural hair in a cloudy halo around her lined, nut-brown face. Like Danika, she wore all black, and when she spoke, her voice was low and slow and considered, her accent broad and northern. Something about the way she held herself, from the steady set of her shoulders to the no-nonsense line of her mouth, seemed to say, Respect is mandatory and I comfortably await your payment.

She kind of reminded him of Danika.

“Excuse me,” the pink-faced man hissed after a blessed few moments of silence. “What did you say?”