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 was 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
