Take a Hint, Dani Brown (The Brown Sisters, #2)

by Talia Hibbert

Then Zaf kissed her forehead, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth. Instead of pulling away, Dani turned her head. Their lips met.

Before long, he started coming over early to cook dinner. She’d eat saag paneer with one hand, the other clutching a book. “Sorry,” she’d say every so often. “I’m—sorry. I’m busy. You don’t have to do this.” “I know,” he’d say. “I want to.” She’d smile, and eat, and read. He’d crack out his laptop and catch up on work.

She cleared her throat. “I made you something.” And then, while his brain was still processing those words, she shoved the pouch at him like a toddler presenting a finger painting.

A hint of pleasure warmed her features, erasing her self-consciousness. “It’s a charm. It’ll help you sleep. I know you don’t like taking your meds when you have to get up in the morning, so I thought maybe—” “You thought you’d make me this,” he said, emotion spilling from his voice without permission. His feelings for Dani were like sunlight: they’d always find a crack to slip through, a way to light things up.

Slowly, he drew her into a hug. Zaf knew, logically, that Danika wasn’t a small woman—actually, that was one of the things he liked about her. But sometimes, she really felt small. Like right now, when the tension leaked out of her, drop by drop, and she relaxed slowly into his arms. Zaf kissed the top of her head, then pressed his nose into her hair and breathed deeply. Once, twice, as many times as it took, until her breathing slowed, too, and they were in calm, steady synch. It was good, doing this for someone—with someone—instead of just himself.

When the panel finally ended and Dani headed over to Zaf, she was so exhilarated that she practically ran. He caught her, thank goodness. Wrapped his arms around her and pressed her safe against his chest, kissed the top of her head and lifted her clean off her feet for a moment.

Apparently, joy was dinner with her ridiculous sisters, bingeing Netflix shows with her nonsensical best friend, arguing with her ludicrous grandmother. Repotting her plants, dyeing her hair for no discernable reason, being with Zafir— She cut that last thought off for now.

“Once every two weeks, I drive an hour to my favorite salon to get my nails done. I don’t give a damn what else is on my to-do list; this is nonnegotiable. Major or minor, if something keeps you human when pressure makes you feel like a volcano, hold on to that thing by whatever means necessary.”

It was mortifying and inconvenient and sure to bite her in the backside, but clearly . . . clearly, joy was Zaf.

The giddy, tender swirl of her feelings shouldn’t matter: you weren’t supposed to put your happiness in someone else’s hands. It never worked. It was foolish. It was dangerous. Only, Dani had been struggling for a while to see any part of Zaf as dangerous, not when he looked at her as if she were the world. Now here was Inez Holly herself, like an unwitting sign from the universe, telling Dani to stop stalling, stop making him wait, and choose joy.

“We spend a lot of time together,” she told him, “and it’s not awful. So maybe we could . . .” God, she really hadn’t thought this through, and it turned out sheer, shining adoration was incredibly difficult to express out loud. But apparently, that was okay with Zaf, because he swept in and rescued her. “Maybe we could keep being not-awful?” “Exactly,” she managed. “Together,” he pushed. “Without faking it. And without limits.” “Right,” she said faintly. “You know what that is,” he murmured, “don’t you, Danika?”

“I love you as you are. Exactly as you are.”

And you really don’t see why I might love you? Sweetheart, loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Because the world wasn’t split into unhappy endings and happily ever afters. There were blessings everywhere and a thousand shades of joy all around him. Every shade should be savored.

Dani made a mental note: Zafir likes verbal declarations. She had decided, these last few days, to study everything Zaf liked and do her very best to give it to him.

“I . . . may or may not have read a few romance novels in order to research how I might win you back.” “You did what?” he choked out. Then his shock dissolved into laughter. “Ah, but of course you did. Danika fucking Brown.” He made her name sound like a blessing.

I don’t want you to change, Danika. I just want you to be mine.”

“Well, it’s—” “For our anniversary, correct?” Zaf froze. “That . . . is not what I was going to say.” “But it’s true, though.” She didn’t look upset. Actually, she looked pleased.

“I was trying to write you a letter,” she said, waving her paper around.

“Signed?” Zaf cut in, and picked up the book again, flipping it open. There it was, right on the title page: For Zaf. And then a signature. From one of his favorite authors.

“I know I didn’t have to do this, Zaf. I never have to do anything with you. But you make me want to. You make me feel like myself, and you make me feel like I’m enough,