And Zaf, she realized abruptly, wasn’t saying it, either. He was lying. He was performing. He was faking it.
“Well, that was adorable,” Edison cooed, dragging Dani rudely back to earth. She tucked her stormy confusion away and hoped her expression on camera hadn’t been too shocked, or alarmed, or bewildered.
Meanwhile, the deejay continued. “And there we have it, folks! Zaf and Danika, aka #DrRugbae, are most definitely couple goals.”
Edison was getting on her nerves, all of a sudden. Back to the workhouse with him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Zaf wasn’t the only person in the world who’d noticed Danika was kind of a genius. He couldn’t be. For one thing, she had a B.A. and an M.A. and they were letting her get a Ph.D., and that didn’t really happen by accident. For another, journals published her articles, which meant they got it, too. So it must be the people in her personal life who were oblivious dipshits. Clearly, none of them appreciated her enough—not if Zaf admitting he’d read her work was enough to make her wide-eyed and stutter-y.
He only understood about 60 percent of the things Danika wrote, but even that 60 percent made him feel smarter. More interesting. Educated, and all that good shit. She was talented, damn it. Why was no one reading her stuff?
“You’re brooding,” she told him.
Zaf looked up. They were standing in her kitchen, steam rising between them from the boiling kettle. As soon as they’d gotten home, Danika had changed into pajama shorts and that nearly translucent white T-shirt that reduced his concentration to tatters. Barefaced and barefoot, arranging mugs and teaspoons, she looked . . .
She looked like a fantasy he had no business entertaining. Not when she’d made it clear the only relationship she’d bother with was a fake one.
She arched an eyebrow at him as she poured the hot water, and Zaf remembered they were talking. Or Dani was talking, and he was staring at her mouth like some kind of sex-starved animal. Which made sense, since he felt like one.
“Brooding’s kind of my thing,” he told her, and she laughed.
“Is that what the heroes do in those books of yours?”
“For someone who isn’t interested in romance, you ask a lot of questions about it.”
She rolled her eyes—which isn’t an answer, Danika—handed him a mug, and wandered off toward the living room. He followed, and they sat down on her vast, purple velvet sofa, side by side. Close, but not close enough. She could never be close enough. His hands always ached to touch her, and tonight was no different—fuck, tonight was worse. But he wasn’t about to mention it. Changing into pajamas and making tea didn’t really scream Plough me, Zafir, so he wasn’t sure if their whole gentleman’s-agreement thing was still a go. If he wasn’t twice her size and strong enough to throw her around, he might be pushier about it.
But he was both those things, so he kept his hands to himself and looked down at his mug, eying the murky liquid skeptically. “Dan. There’re plants in my tea.”
“Tea is a plant, Zaf.” Her tone was severe, but when he looked up he saw her lips twitch.
“Are you trying to poison me?”
“It’ll help you sleep.”
“Don’t start complaining about my sleeping patterns,” he snorted, “or I’ll stop answering your texts at two A.M.”
“I’d know you didn’t sleep even if we’d never texted.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
Instead of pointing out the bags under his eyes, she said, “You have the energy of a newborn baby.”
He spluttered.
“Which suggests that you are, amongst other things, pure of heart and always hungry.”
“I don’t know about that first part.”
“And tired,” she continued. “You’re always tired.”
She wasn’t wrong. But she was soft—her voice, her eyes, her words—and that softness wrapped itself around his heart like a blanket.
Don’t think like that. I promise nothing good will come of it.
“While we’re on the subject,” he said, “you don’t sleep great, either.”
“I’m a machine,” she said airily.
“No, you’re not.” The words were fiercer than he’d intended. “You’re a human being, and staying up all hours of the night isn’t good for you, any more than it’s good for me. If you can sleep, you bloody well should.”
The eyeroll she gave was dismissive, but he knew the way the air crackled when Dani was thinking. And she was thinking, right now, about everything he’d just said. But all she did was mutter, “Drink your tea.”
Like an obedient puppy, he bent his head and inhaled. Caught lavender and spices, heat and comfort. “Can I ask you something?”
“When people start with a question like that, it usually means they’re about to be rude.”
His lips quirked. “I’m not trying to be.”
“Well, in that case,” she drawled.
Zaf tried his tea, enjoyed it more than expected, and sipped again. Then he nodded at the little table in front of them—the one with the golden goddess and the orange slices. “This statue, the tea, the garnet you gave me.” He’d given it back, but he still felt the phantom pressure against his chest. “What’s all that about?”
“I’m a witch.”
“Oh,” he croaked after a moment. “Witch. Okay.” Crap. Knowing Zaf’s luck, she’d received the mystical equivalent of a push notification every time he thought about her tits. “So how does that, er, work?”
Dani sipped her own tea, clearly hiding a smile. “It depends, really. It can be very personal. For me, my Nana—my maternal grandmother, Rose—she was an obeah woman. It’s a spirituality that started with enslaved Africans in the Caribbean, so it has a lot of influences and variations, but . . .” She trailed off, her eyes distant in a way that told him thoughts were arcing through her mind faster than lightning.
“Is that what you do?” he asked, nudging her gently. His knee brushed her legs, which were curled up beneath her like a cat’s.
She blinked back to him. “Oh—hardly. It’s
