She’d hate him for it, only she was quite tragically in love with him, so hate was proving difficult.
“I remember that little shit Mateo,” Chloe went on. “Never liked him. I don’t trust southerners.”
Oh. Apparently, the issue at hand wasn’t Dani’s attitude change; it was everything she’d just admitted. She dried her eyes and murmured, “Mateo was Welsh.”
Chloe sniffed. “Wherever he was from, I don’t trust them.”
Sorcha laughed. Eve snorted. And Dani felt incredibly light, despite the lump of sadness blocking her throat and making it hard to breathe.
“You know,” Eve said thoughtfully, “you really ought to share with the class more often, Dan. Because now we know all of this, we can tell you helpful things, like: Mateo was a total scumbag. And: you should marry the Superman security guard. And: we love you.”
Dani managed a wobbly smile and forced out a mortifyingly honest response. “I love you, too.”
“Awwww!” Eve slapped a hand over her heart and pretended to faint. “You know what else I love? That this witch stuff actually works. You might have to teach me.”
Sorcha rolled her eyes. “It’s not about whether or not it works, Eve.”
But Dani was suddenly sure that it absolutely had.
Before she could examine that thought further, the front door opened with a creak and the jangle of keys. “All right,” Redford called from the hallway. “If the guy I’m supposed to kill is that big fucker from the video, we’ll need an airtight plan.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Texting Zaf after what had happened really didn’t seem like an option. The idea of talking to him over the phone, without being able to see his face—or, worse, calling and him not picking up—felt even more ill-advised. And turning up at his house after storming out just that morning wasn’t acceptable, either, not in Dani’s mind. She wanted to get this right. Not someone else’s idea of perfect, but right, for both of them.
To put it simply, they needed to talk. Shudder. After she’d apologized. Double shudder. So Dani spent Sunday evening trimming her hair and dyeing it red for confidence while on the phone with her grandmother, searching for sage advice.
“Men are difficult creatures,” Gigi said as Dani slapped scarlet gloop onto her head. “And it does sound as if you hurt his feelings, my dense little darling. Not that I blame you. You’re far too delicate to be expected to weather the drama of sudden romantic confessions.”
Dani did not consider herself remotely delicate, but she decided now wasn’t the time to argue the point. “I was hoping you’d have some sort of magic tip to help me win him over.” Because if the tables had been turned—if she’d been brave enough to admit she loved Zaf, and he’d thrown it back in her face—Dani knew very well she wouldn’t be particularly understanding. Not even if she knew all about his reasons.
Hurting a loved one was like running over someone’s foot; you rarely meant to do it, but the bones still broke.
“Tips?” Gigi mused. “Hmm. I rarely bother winning people back, darling, so I’m afraid I won’t be much use. Unless you want to hear about oral techniques—”
“Nooo, thank you. Nope. No. Definitely not.”
“I didn’t think so. In that case, my beautiful buttercup—you know him best. You know how to explain and how to earn his forgiveness. I don’t think anyone can help you with that.”
The advice rang in Dani’s ears as she rushed to Echo bright and early Monday morning, Zaf’s cup of bitter black coffee warming her hand. She’d been too jittery to order a green tea for herself, gripped with the urgent need to see him, even if she had no idea how to explain herself, or make it up to him, or anything else. She just had to see him, and tell him she loved him, and then she’d figure it out from there.
Except Zaf wasn’t at his desk.
“Morning, duck.” George beamed as she strode into the foyer. “Nice hair.”
“Oh,” Dani murmured, her steps faltering. “It’s . . . you.” She couldn’t help it if you came out sounding a bit like dog shit. She didn’t want George’s pink-cheeked smile. She wanted a grim-faced scowl.
George appeared unperturbed by her less-than-warm welcome. “That for me?” he asked hopefully, reaching for the coffee.
“No.” Dani jerked back, which was ridiculous. Zaf wasn’t here, and she certainly wasn’t going to drink his awful brew. But he must be around somewhere. He had to be. She needed to give him this, and tell him she was sorry, and see if he’d still brought her morning protein bar or if he’d absolutely washed his hands of Dani and her poor nutrition, which she wouldn’t blame him for. Not because of the nutrition itself, but because she’d been a shit. “Where is Zafir?”
George gave her an odd look. “Called in sick. Thought you’d know.”
Sick? “Right,” Dani said calmly, as if she weren’t absolutely stricken. “Of course.” But there was no of course about it. Zaf never called in sick. Never. She’d noticed that the same way she’d noticed everything about him, for months and months now: easily, without ever once realizing how closely she watched him or how fascinating she found even his mundanities.
He was wonderful, he was everything, and she’d hurt him, and now he’d called in sick. Shame curdled like sour milk in her belly. “See you,” she muttered to George, and scurried up the stairs.
The next day, she brought another coffee, but Zaf still wasn’t there. Dani swallowed hard in the face of George’s slightly pitying smile, walked past the lift with a wistful, teary glance, and dragged herself up the stairs, which suddenly seemed to go on for
