“Anyway,” Dani was saying, “if anyone brings up your family during this interview, don’t worry. I’ll eat them.”
That startled a smile out of him. “Good to know. Jamal pretended to be my publicist and outlined what they could and couldn’t ask. So it should be fine, but . . .”
“But some people struggle with basic listening skills,” she finished, facing his fears head on. “Well, I can promise you this: I’ll be right beside you to misdirect whenever necessary. All right?”
She was too fierce and too smart to doubt. The only thing he could say was “All right.” The only thing he could feel was relief.
“And,” she went on, “I have something that might help your nerves. I mean, it always helps me when I’m nervous, so . . .” Dani’s voice trailed off as she began fiddling with the mess of leather cords she always wore around her neck. Zaf had spent way more hours than was healthy wondering what hung off those cords. His current favorite theory was that she kept every engagement ring she’d ever been given, kind of like how Russian princesses used to sew jewels into their clothes before they fled the country. He’d read about that in an older romance novel he’d found at the local library.
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
