“Rugbae,” Sorcha purred with a shit-eating grin.
They chose a food truck with surprisingly little fanfare, Sorcha prattling on as they waited for their subs, Zaf distracting Dani completely by going all . . . quiet. He was obviously listening as Sorcha spoke, his eyes focused and his nods coming at the right moment, but the sarcastic responses Dani had grown used to were replaced by a gruff, steady calm. He answered direct questions. He offered tiny, one-sided smiles. And that was it.
Dani watched him all the way back to their table, wondering if perhaps he was horribly ill, or had dropped his attitude down a well and needed help to rescue it.
Then Sorcha disappeared to find barbecue sauce (something about dunking over spreading; Dani preferred not to ask). As soon as they were alone, Zaf’s posture relaxed. That forbidding furrow between his eyebrows disappeared, and he flashed a smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and Dani’s brain melt at the edges. “So. Sorcha’s fun.”
Oh. Something clicked into place. “I forgot,” Dani blurted, then wanted to kick herself.
He raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“I . . .” Well, she’d committed now; might as well reveal her creepy fluency in Zafir Ansari. Painfully glad that he couldn’t see her blush, she cleared her throat and said primly, “I forgot how you are around people you don’t know.”
His eyebrows, if possible, rose higher. “Meaning?”
She, if possible, blushed harder. “Meaning nothing. I just—I suppose I’m used to you being yourself around me. I’m glad—” No. Nope. Stop. Danika Alfreda Brown, stop fucking talking.
But it was too late. Zaf’s eyebrows displayed previously undiscovered Olympic potential and rose even higher. His grin was unselfconscious and familiar, and in the midst of her embarrassment, Dani felt a rogue flare of pleasure that he was showing it to her. This man didn’t share himself with everyone, which was just fine, but he shared himself with her, which was—exhilarating. Fucking fantastic.
Ah, the wonders of friendship.
“You’re glad that what, Dani?” he nudged.
“Shut up.” She sank vicious teeth into her sandwich.
“Glad you flossed this morning?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Glad . . . you wore your favorite shoes?”
How did Zaf know these were her favorite—? Oh. Because the other night, during one of their exhausted, babbling phone calls, she’d waxed lyrical about the blessed style-and-comfort combo of her suede block-heel ankle boots. The man absorbed information like a sponge. But she couldn’t allow herself to be impressed, not while he was currently ruining her life.
“Glad . . .” He trailed off as if thinking, then leaned in closer, his arm sliding around her shoulders and his lips brushing her earlobe. She fought a shiver of pleasure and lost. “Are you glad, Dani,” he asked, his voice smoky, “that you know me?”
She put down her sandwich. “Do you enjoy making me say hideous, unnecessary, and mortifying things?”
His answer was instant, delivered with a smile. “Oh, yeah.”
Dani was saved from crawling under the table and hiding there forever by the reappearance of Sorcha, who popped up out of nowhere and took a picture of them on her phone. With flash.
“A close-up of the lovely couple,” she trilled. “I see a platinum tweet in my future.”
Dani studied her lunchtime companions and wondered which of the two she should murder first.
Perhaps they both sensed the silent threat, because Zaf slipped easily into fake boyfriend mode—which involved lots of secret smiles and very little emotional torment—while Sorcha zipped her lips and put her phone away. This newfound peace lasted for thirty blessed minutes. But the moment Zaf kissed Dani’s cheek and headed back to Echo, Sorcha’s bullshit began.
“Hmm,” she said.
Dani pointedly ignored her. “Do you think Zaf knows he left his muffin? Maybe I should go after him.”
“Hmmmmm,” Sorcha repeated.
Dani picked off one of the muffin’s chocolate chips and popped it in her mouth. “Or not.”
“Hmmmmmmmm.”
“Sorcha, darling, do you have something in your throat?”
“Who, me?” Sorcha batted her lashes. “Not at all. I’m simply overwhelmed by Dr. Rugbae’s cuteness. All those meaningful looks, and the tender way he wiped milkshake off your nose . . . Adorable.”
“Good,” Dani said, keeping her voice low. “It’s supposed to be.”
“And why’s that?”
Dani shot her a look. “You know why.”
Sorcha snorted. “I know something.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Sorcha smiled and shrugged one narrow, black-clad shoulder.
“You’re very irritating when you’re being enigmatic, did you know that? And”—Dani squinted—“are you wearing my Benetton jumper?”
Sorcha waved a hand as if she could brush the question away. “You might as well eat that muffin. He left it for you.”
Dani looked down at the little cake. “What? No, he didn’t. I told him I didn’t have time for dessert.”
“Because you’re very strict about your schedule when you’re stressed. But you’re also easily tempted out of said strictness when faced with the temptation of sweets, which Zaf clearly knows.” Sorcha leaned forward, an odd, almost excitable expression on her face. “So he bought it. And left it. For you. How does that make you feel, Danika?”
Dani doused the flicker of warmth in her chest, pinching her own thigh beneath the table to ward off nonsensical emotions. “How does that make me feel? Is this some sort of therapy role-play?”
“Are you pleased?” Sorcha prodded. “Are you happy that he bought you a muffin?”
“I don’t think he did buy me a muffin,” Dani insisted, because if she allowed herself to think that he had—well. She didn’t know what would happen, but the giddiness blossoming in her stomach and the completely unauthorized smile tugging at her lips suggested it would be bad. Terrible. Mortifying.
Foolish. If she let herself follow Sorcha’s thread, she would make a fool of herself.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dani said firmly, and took a bite of the dessert because finders were keepers anyway. Through a mouthful of fluffy chocolate goodness, she mumbled, “For Christ’s sake, it’s only a muffin.”
Sorcha huffed out a sigh and leaned back in her chair. “Oh sweet Lord, you have got to be
