Take a Hint, Dani Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  A woman like Dani must deal with proposals at least once a month, and since she was mind-numbingly posh, all the rings were probably platinum-and-diamond situations from white guys whose great-great-great-great-grandmas once fucked Henry VIII. So when she pulled off the necklaces and Zaf caught sight of loose, colorful stones hanging from each one, he knew straightaway that his favorite theory was 100 percent wrong.

  Which was fine, since he was about to learn the truth.

  “Here,” she said, disentangling a small, bloodred stone from the rest. “Just for the interview.”

  Zaf held out a hand for the swinging pendant. “Thanks . . .” he said slowly. “What is it?”

  “It’s a garnet. I wear it for my grandma Gigi—her name is Garnet—but it also brings balance, strength, courage. Good for career things.” She dropped the cord into his palm where it curled like licorice. The stone was warm against his skin—warm from her skin. This was what she wore every day, tucked safely under her clothes like a secret? He looked up and found her watching him, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.

  “You believe in this?” he asked.

  She lifted her chin, her gaze sharpening. “Yes.”

  “I’m not trying to say shit,” he told her.

  The tension left her shoulders, but she shrugged as if she didn’t care either way. He didn’t believe it. Zaf was beginning to notice that Danika cared about more things than she let on, including him. The evidence was warm against his chest right now: she believed in this gem stuff, and she’d given him one, like sharing a slice of faith. That mattered. It mattered so much his bones ached. He put on the necklace, tucking the little red gem safely under his clothes. “Thanks,” he said again, and this time the word came from somewhere deeper.

  “You’re welcome,” she said softly, and for a moment he thought he saw the same hazy tenderness that filled him reflected in her eyes. But then she shook her head, standing a little straighter and flashing a little brighter, like Hollywood lights. “All right,” she told him briskly, hooking her arm through his. “Let’s do this. Don’t forget: we are young and in love and boundlessly affectionate.” As if she were an actor coaching herself before she went onstage.

  But nothing—nothing—about the last twenty minutes had been acting. None of it had been performance, none of it had been fake. And suddenly, Zaf was gripped by the urge to pull her back, look her in the eye, and make her admit it.

  The only thing stopping him was the knowledge that pushing too hard made things snap.

  * * *

  Ten rushed minutes later, Dani found herself seated on a surprisingly uncomfortable but chic-looking bench in a surprisingly well done but tiny room. Apparently, she was way behind on the norms of modern radio, because there was a camera blinking at them from the right, and the footage it recorded would, they’d been informed, eventually find its way to YouTube. Seemed like everyone had to diversify their income these days.

  Luckily, Dani had dressed to impress one Zafir Ansari, so she looked generally presentable. And Zaf himself was always disgustingly hot, so no problems there. For a moment, when the teenage assistant had explained the filming element to them, Dani had worried it might trigger more anxiety for Zaf. But he’d touched the slight bump created by the garnet beneath his shirt and nodded.

  A burst of something tender and possessive had hit Dani then, leaving her breathless. It was just as strong as the sorrow that had carved itself into her bones when he’d told her about his family. She’d wanted to kiss him. She’d wanted to cry. She’d wanted to tell the world how incredible he was, because he’d dealt with all that but look at him—look at him—he was still fucking going.

  Only, she couldn’t do any of those things, because they all seemed excessively passionate, and the only passions Dani typically permitted herself were sexual and professional. Anything else had to make it past the committee, and the board had not approved Feeling Intensely for Zafir. The board had approved Shagging Zafir, which, more to the point, was the only proposal Dani had actually submitted.

  At that moment, Zaf’s hand nudged hers on the cool, plastic surface of the bench, cutting off her thoughts. She looked up, met the dark honey of his gaze, and saw a secret smile, just for her. Pleasure zipped over her stomach, skating between her breasts, warming her from the inside out. Then he hooked his little finger over hers, a tiny connection hidden between their bodies, one the camera wouldn’t catch—one even the radio presenter wouldn’t see across the equipment-laden table—and Dani was forced to remind herself that Zaf was just getting into character. Method acting, or something. They were performing their relationship, and he was putting his all into this scene. Nothing more.

  The music filling the room faded away as the presenter, a beanpolelike white man who was all messy hair and huge, horsey teeth, fiddled with a slide-y type thing on the table. Apparently, his name was Edison. Dani had never heard of him, as she preferred Radio Four.

  “Allll right, then,” he began, before nattering away about the song he’d just played in a smooth, dark-chocolate voice that didn’t remotely match his appearance. With his oversized, raggedy jumper and enormous eyes, he looked like the ghost of a Victorian child shoved into skinny jeans.

  Dani was in danger of zoning out completely to explore the parallels between Radio Trent’s evening presenter and nineteenth-century children when she heard their pre-discussed cue. Which was, for the sake of simplicity, Zaf’s name.

  “. . . Zafir Ansari, former rugby union flanker for our very own Titans, and his girlfriend, Danika Brown. These two have kicked up a storm recently as the social media sensation #DrRugbae. Welcome to the show, guys.”

  “Cheers, mate,” Zaf nodded.

  Having decided that feigning demureness was the best route (until Zaf needed her to leap in and attack, anyway) Dani dimpled prettily and murmured, “Hello.”

  “So, how do you guys feel about the whole Dr. Rugbae situation? That first viral video—what was that like?”

  “It was . . . unexpected,” Zaf said ruefully. Dani had wondered if he’d clam up, but now that he’d gotten past his initial nerves, he was cool and collected and charming in a way he usually hid. If she were a stranger watching this, she’d think he was absolutely fine—confident, even.

  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 wa
s 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?”

  At one point, Dani realized with a blush that she was nodding along beside him like some sort of hypnotized acolyte. She stopped, of course. But as she leaned closer to him, like the tide drawn in by the moon, it occurred to her that she could think of no one she’d rather fake date. Whoever ended up with Zaf would have a partner to be dizzyingly proud of, wouldn’t they?

  Well, maybe. Or maybe the romance he prized so highly would go to his head and his desire for the ideal partnership would devolve into a toxic need for perfection that led him to ultimately and brutally betray his lover. Based on personal experience, empirical evidence, most literary canon, and plain old probability, that seemed far more likely than a boring, uneventful life of contentment and faithfulness.

  Even if, for some reason, she couldn’t quite envision Zaf in the role of Textbook Arsehole.

  Most likely, then, he’d be the one who ended up hurt, all his sweet illusions shattering like glass. That possibility caused a discordant clang inside Dani that she found quite disturbing.

  Eventually, the discussion of Tackle It was expertly wound down by Edison, and Dani waited for more music to be played so she and Zaf could be ushered away. Instead, the deejay rubbed his hands together menacingly—if the poor, juvenile victim of a centuries-old workhouse could be considered menacing—and said with obvious glee, “All right! Before we say good-bye to #DrRugbae, the team and I have cooked up a fun little game to find out if you guys are couple goals”—he pressed a button that created some sort of cheering effect—“or a total fail.” Another button, this time with a boo.

  Dani shifted in her seat, frowning over at Zaf. What on earth was this? No boos. She was too accomplished to be booed. And Zaf spent his free time teaching little boys how to feel, so he certainly shouldn’t be booed. In fact, if anyone dared to boo him, she’d stick her stiletto firmly up their arse. Dry.

  While Dani’s temper continued to quietly unravel, presumably due to the stress of the unknown, Edison reached beneath his desk and produced two small whiteboards with dry-erase pens Blu-tacked at the top.

  “So how this works is, I’ll ask you questions about each other.” He handed them each a board. “You write down your answers, then we see if they match. It’s a bit like they do on Love Island—you watch Love Island?”

  Zaf looked bewildered. “Er . . .”

  Apparently, he’d completely missed that particular phenomenon. Fascinating.

  “Never mind, never mind,” Edison said. “Let’s jump right in, shall we?”

  Dani narrowly resisted the urge to say, No. We shall not.

  At her side, Zaf veered with impressive speed from confusion to horror to unmistakable panic. Their eyes met, and Dani could almost read his mind. She’d bet money on him thinking, at this very moment, How the fuck are we supposed to answer these questions when we’re not really together? I haven’t even shagged you yet.

  She tried to send back something along the lines of All in good time. And at least you know about my arse tattoo.

  Perhaps the telepathy attempt didn’t work, because he failed to laugh.

  “Question number one,” Edison said, blissfully unaware of his guests’ simultaneous internal meltdowns. “We’ll start easy. Zaf, how does Dani take her tea?”

  Zaf stared. “So now I . . . ?”

  “Now you write down your answer, Dani writes hers, and we see if they match.”

  Zaf looked dubious. “All right.”

  “Also, you have ten seconds.” Edison flashed them a toothy grin, tapped a button, and a rather high-pressure clock noise filled the room.

  “Oh, Christ,” Dani muttered, staring at her whiteboard. She suddenly had no idea how she took her own tea—and, more important, neither did Zaf. If they were really together, he’d be able to answer this, wouldn’t he? Oh dear. If a ridiculous game on a local radio station exposed their lies, Dani might just burn this place to the ground.

  After a tense few seconds, she scribbled down her answer without much thought—since they were utterly doomed and absolutely nothing mattered—and waited with dread for the timer to end and Zaf to get this question hideously wrong. Really, it wouldn’t be the end of the world, she told her racing heart. No one would hear them fail some radio game and come to the ludicrous conclusion that their entire relationship was a sham. But they might decide that Zaf was a shitty boyfriend, or that their relationship in general was shitty—how had Edison put it? A fail?—and for some reason, that idea bothere
d Dani severely.

  “All right, time to share.” Edison grinned. “Zaf, what’s your answer?”

  Zaf flipped his board, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Green. She, er . . . well, she doesn’t drink regular tea. But she drinks a lot of green tea. So. Green.”

  Dani stared.

  Edison was clearly horrified that she drank anything other than breakfast tea, but he hid it well. “Dani, what’s your answer?”

  She flipped her board.

  And now Zaf was the one staring.

  “Green tea!” Edison said cheerfully, when it became clear Dani wasn’t going to.

  She was feeling rather dazed, actually. A rush of relief and a flash of surprise combined to intoxicate her, until she returned to her senses and pulled herself firmly together. Of course Zaf knew she drank green tea. When she brought him coffee, he teased her about the contents of her own cup. And really, what was tea, anyway? Minor, that’s what. Practically public information. There were people Dani despised who knew her tea preferences.

  Of course, those were usually people she’d worked with in close quarters, people who’d been forced to actually make her said tea as a matter of courtesy when it was their turn to be on kettle duty. But still.

  Still.

  “Next question!” Edison appeared to be enjoying himself. Either he had the intellect of a puppy, or he was unusually invested in #DrRugbae. Dani suspected, with no little discomfort, that it was the latter. “Dani, what’s Zaf’s favorite flavor of crisps?”

  Well, she knew that; she’d seen him eating them often enough. Dani scrawled salt and vinegar onto her board and flipped it over before the ten seconds were up. What sort of relationship quiz was this if two work friends could win so easily? Although, some might say she and Zaf were a little more than work friends these days. Coconspiracy tended to intensify a relationship. Perhaps they’d leveled up to general friends, or some other platonic relationship status that explained the magnetic pull she felt sitting beside him, as if every second she spent not looking at him or smiling for him or laughing with him was a second wasted.