“Uh . . . you’re welcome,” the man said faintly, then stared for a second before turning abruptly away.
Zaf sympathized.
They got their food a few minutes later and sat in the middle of the courtyard. Zaf spent a solid ten seconds dithering about where to sit—was opposite her more datelike, or next to her?—before getting a grip and choosing a seat at random. Danika, meanwhile, ignored him completely in favor of devouring her noodles. So, really, she wasn’t that great at this fake-date thing, either. Or maybe she was just super hungry. Whatever the case, the fact that he wouldn’t be the only one letting the side down took the pressure off a bit. Zaf swallowed, picked up a fork, and dug in.
Dani had been right about the tofu: it was good—really good, in fact. The chips, obviously, were chips. He finished all his food before she was even halfway done with hers, then asked, “You need some help?” just to get on her nerves.
She froze and gave him a deadly look. “You need my plastic fork up your arse?”
“Might be worth it for more of those noodles.”
“Zafir, if cutlery-based orgasms are what gets you going, just say.” Out of nowhere, she grinned. The effect was so overwhelming, he actually had to remind his cock that this was all a joke. Relax, mate. We’re not even into anal.
Then she leaned forward and murmured, “If you’re that hard up, I’ll shove a fork in there for free.”
Zaf’s dick looked at him suspiciously and said, We’re not into it? Are you sure?
He cleared his throat.
She smirked and went back to her food. But she also picked up her phone and, somehow, typed out a text as she ate. When his phone beeped a second later, he realized the text was to him.
DANIKA: Hey. Strategy meeting.
ZAF: . . . Are you really texting me right now? I’m sitting next to you.
The food court was alarmingly bright and filled with a surprising number of avid eyes—Dani would never get over the baffling popularity of this #DrRugbae phenomenon—so, yes, she was indeed texting Zaf from the same table. And he was clearly unimpressed, because his reply was accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a disapproving look. God, he was such a dad. An adorable dad. An adorable, sexy—actually, never mind.
DANIKA: I know, but spies are everywhere. Case in point, that boy to your left is filming us under the table.
And now he looked vaguely horrified.
ZAF: Please tell me you’re joking.
DANIKA: Look for yourself, if you dare.
ZAF: You know I’m too obvious for that.
DANIKA: True. Anyway, since we’re on camera, we should probably look less text-obsessed and more deeply in love. Idea: feed me some noodles.
ZAF: Feed you? Seriously?
DANIKA: Just do it.
Couples fed each other, right? Yes, they most certainly did. Dani had seen it in Lady and the Tramp, plus her parents had done it with cake for their wedding photos. And since she wasn’t confident in her ability to seem happily committed and blissfully in love—hungrily in lust, more like—every little helped.
Zaf shot her a dubious look, put down his phone, and reached for her noodles. “All right. Open up.”
“Just be careful,” she muttered under her breath. “I have an overdeveloped gag reflex.”
“Erm . . . okay,” he said, looking as if he expected to wake up and find this entire situation had been some sort of weird, cheese-fueled dream. When the waking up failed to occur, he shrugged his massive shoulders and held out a forkful of noodles. They both hesitated for an awkward moment before Dani, in a bid to look comfortable and couple-y, opened her mouth and leaned in toward the fork.
At the exact same time, Zaf moved, too. Because of course he did.
He jabbed, she jerked. Their mutual enthusiasm did not, unfortunately, make for a calm, controlled, social-media-friendly feeding experience.
Actually, Dani ended up with a wad of bean sprouts at the back of her throat, all of which she promptly spat out onto his lap.
Friday 12:36 P.M.
ZAF: Noodles again?
DANIKA: All the yes, but don’t feed me this time. I’m not ready to die.
ZAF: I told you it was a bad idea!
DANIKA: And I told you about my gag reflex, so it looks like we’re both terrible listeners.
ZAF: George asked me yesterday why my crotch smelled like hot sauce. I think he thinks I have some kind of food fetish now.
DANIKA: Does he think you have a Teflon dick, too? Because a hot-sauce fetish sounds extremely painful and also a high UTI risk.
ZAF: Should’ve thought of that before you threw up on me.
DANIKA: IT WASN’T VOMIT. IT WAS JUST FOOD. IT WAS UNDIGESTED FOOD. IT WAS UNSWALLOWED FOOD. HOW MANY TIMES?
Saturday 8:48 P.M.
DANIKA: Are you free for late-night phone calls, or do you have weekend-type plans?
ZAF: Weekend-type plans?
DANIKA: You know what I mean.
ZAF: Yeah. I just enjoy your nerd phrasing. Have to let it marinate.
DANIKA: I am strongly considering blocking your number.
ZAF: But if you did, who would be your five-minute entertainment tonight?
DANIKA: There’s a sex joke in there somewhere but I’ve been staring at this book for three hours now, so my brain is too blurry to find it
ZAF: If you’ve been working for three hours that means you owe me six phone calls already. So close the book and ring me now.
Over the weekend, Tackle It hit a milestone: £3,000 in one-off donations had been made since the Dr. Rugbae video went viral. Zaf had posted about it online, received an unholy number of likes and comments, and the total donations had bumped up even higher. He’d made Fatima a bowl of rasgulla roughly the same size as her head, because she was a genius mastermind who deserved to be recognized as his niece again, and he’d gone out with Jamal to a milkshake bar in
