Take a Hint, Dani Brown (The Brown Sisters #2)(95)

“Nothing,” she said with a scowl. But the trepidation in her pretty brown eyes and the way she pressed her teeth into her plump lower lip all said otherwise.

Zaf dragged her into his lap. “Bullshit.”

Dani laughed, slid her hands into his hair, and pulled him close. Her kiss was quick and soft and almost shy, as if they barely knew each other again. She tasted like tea and honey and comfort, and by the time she pulled away, he was light-headed, as always, grinning and drunk on her. Seemed like he’d never build up a tolerance.

Then she asked him out of nowhere, “What did you make for dinner?”

“Nothing special,” he said. “Just, you know . . . egg fried rice. And stuff.”

She smiled, slow and sweet. “Ah. Good choice.”

“Well, it’s—”

“For our anniversary, correct?”

Zaf froze. “That . . . is not what I was going to say.”

“But it’s true, though.” She didn’t look upset. Actually, she looked pleased.

That pleasure spilled over to him, her sunlight too bright to contain. “My girlfriend doesn’t believe in anniversaries,” he said, fighting a smile, “and I don’t like to pressure her. Not when she does Valentine’s Day so well.”

Dani flicked imaginary hair over her shoulder and looked adorably self-satisfied.

“Plus,” he continued, “we only moved in together six months ago. I’m still trying to make sure she won’t run off into the night.”

“You know I’m not going to do that, Zafir.” She rolled her eyes, but there was nothing mocking about what she said next. “I can’t. I love you. And you’re mine.”

“I know,” Zaf said softy. And he really, really did. He’d never known anything the way he knew that, because she showed him in a thousand perfectly Danika ways every day.

“Anyway,” she continued, “you sleep half on top of me and you’re too heavy to push off, so I couldn’t sneak away if I tried.”

He burst out laughing.

She crawled out of his lap and back to her stack of books—which, he now realized, were romance novels. Ones he recognized. Zaf frowned at the familiar spines as she said primly, “Since you raised the topic of anniversaries—”

“Oh, yeah. Since I raised it.”

“Shut up. Here.” She picked up the first book in the pile and shoved it at him.

Zaf blinked down at the cover and wondered if Dani had forgotten he already owned this. It was one of his favorites, although, in fairness, he hadn’t seen it for a while. Thought he’d lost it or something.

Then he eyed an old scuff on the corner and realized this was literally his book.

“Er . . . thanks, sweetheart,” he said. He meant it, too. It was sweet that she’d decided to go against her weird theories about temporal markers in relationships as an unnecessary source of external validation, or whatever, even if she’d done it by . . . gifting him his own book.

“I was trying to write you a letter,” she said, waving her paper around. “I’ve been working on it for hours. I thought I could finish it before you got home, but then you returned disgracefully early—”

“Pretty sure I didn’t.”

“Don’t split hairs, darling. The point is, it’s not my finest work, but it’ll do.” She handed the paper over with a grimace. He looked down at the few lines she’d written and wondered if it was possible to pass out from adorableness overload. Then he actually read the words and decided that, if it was possible, he was in serious danger.

Dear Zaf,

I suppose you were right about this anniversary rubbish. On the one hand, it seems twisted to celebrate the growth of your embryonic connection to another, ultimately fallible human being, but on the other, I enjoy finding excuses to make you happy. And I suppose it is quite nice that I’ve had you for a whole year. I love you. Also I have been systematically stealing, defacing, and hiding some of your favorite paperbacks for almost the entire length of our relationship. Hope that’s all right.


Danika



He read that last part with a frown and looked up. “I love you, too. Seriously. A lot. But I’m not sure I understand what you mean about the books.”

Dani pursed her lips and rubbed her hands over her thighs. Nervous. She was still nervous, even after she’d given him the letter. “I considered buying brand-new copies to be signed, but that seemed silly. Then you’d have multiple copies of the same book, and we barely have enough shelf space as it is, and—”

“Signed?” Zaf cut in, and picked up the book again, flipping it open. There it was, right on the title page:

For Zaf.

And then a signature. From one of his favorite authors.

He stared at it for a moment in disbelief. Then he took another book, and another, and opened each one, and saw . . .

“When did you do this?” he murmured, flicking through them all. “How did you do this?”

“I began eight months ago, with some copious research,” Dani said, “and identified the authors amongst your favorites who were likely to assist in a romantic gesture—which was, unsurprisingly, almost all of them. I went with Eve to a few conventions—”

“You told me she was forcing you to do that!”