Take a Hint, Dani Brown - Talia Hibbert Page 0,112

him.

“Are you okay?” he asked now.

“Peachy. Golden. Flying without wings.”

“Right,” he said dryly. “Listen. I’m going to take a shower, and then I’m going to make dinner, and we’re going to eat and talk about whatever’s bothering you.”

“Yes, sir, emotional drill sergeant, sir.”

He snorted and flipped her off through the door.

“Are you giving a slab of wood the finger right now, Zafir?”

“You know me so well,” he said fondly, and left her to it.

An hour later, Zaf was clean, the kitchen was filled with the scent of homemade Chinese food (which looked pretty damn good, if he did say so himself), and his girlfriend was still locked in their bedroom.

He knocked on the door.

“Yes?” she called innocently.

“Food’s almost done.”

“Crap.”

“What?”

“I said, great.”

He sighed. “You know, I’m starting to wonder if there’s a dead body in there.”

“Don’t be silly, darling. This is my favorite room in the house, not to be defiled with murder and gore. I’d keep a dead body in the bathtub. Much easier to clean.”

“Good to know. I’m coming in now.”

Dani released a sigh so mighty he actually heard it through the door. Then she said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I suppose this will have to do.”

Er . . . what would have to do? Zaf opened the door to find Danika sitting on the floor with pieces of paper in her hand and a pile of books next to her. Which wasn’t exactly an unusual sight—except for the expression on her face.

“Sweetheart,” he said, hurrying over to sink down beside her. “What’s wrong?”

“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.