At least, that was her opinion. She wondered now, more than ever, what Zaf’s was. “Why do you read romance?” she asked, sounding a little like a drill sergeant or a police investigator. Oops.

Zaf looked at her as if she’d asked if milk came from fish. “For the romance.”

“The . . . romance.”

“Yeah. People liking each other and talking about their feelings and living happily ever after.”

Now she’d officially entered the realm of what the fuck. “You voluntarily read about people discussing their feelings?”

“Yep.”

“Let me rephrase that,” she said. “Why do you read about people discussing their feelings?”

“If I was standing here with a thriller, would you ask me why I read about people murdering each other?”

“Of course I wouldn’t. You have a murder face, not a feelings face.”

It was his turn to laugh, the sound low and rich and unreasonably sexy. “Good point.”

“It’s just, I would never have guessed you were a romantic.” This is what Dani said, but what she really meant was Oh, hell. You’re a romantic. She hated to question Oshun’s verdict, especially after asking for help in the first place—it seemed a tad ungrateful, slightly rude, et cetera—but really. A romance novel–reading undercover sweetheart who gave his jacket to umbrella forgetters without a second thought? This was her supposedly perfect fuck buddy? She usually preferred the unsentimental and disinterested type. “Fond of happily ever afters, are you?” she asked brightly.

Zaf rubbed a hand over his beard, looking oddly pensive all of a sudden. “I’ve seen the alternative. That’s not the story I want for the rest of my life.”

The words caught Dani unawares, heavy as stone, solemn as still water. A strange ache started beneath her rib cage. “Oh?”

“Mmm.” He brushed the moment off with a barely there smile. “I mean, who doesn’t want to live happily ever after?”

She studied him for a second, searching for another hint of that serious, hidden sadness. But she couldn’t find it, which meant he didn’t intend to share it again—and Dani wasn’t one to push. She certainly found it rather irritating when people pushed her.

So she made herself smile back and say, “I’m more into happy endings, actually.” When Zaf stared at her in silence, she added, “That was a joke. You know. About orgasms.”

“I know,” he said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I just thought you needed a minute to see how corny it was.”

“Oh, wow. Wow. Someone’s feeling sassy today.”

“Maybe you bring it out in me,” he said dryly, and took another bite of his sandwich. “So . . .”

“So?”

“Are we, er . . . going to talk about the elephant in the room?”

For a moment, Dani was convinced he meant her raging theoretical hard-on for him. Perhaps he’d noticed her nipples stabbing the shit out of her bra, or maybe her unsubtle questions about his stance on romance had tipped him off. Eve read romance novels, so Dani had learned that the genre created positive romantic expectations in its reader. Maybe Zaf was about to gently inform her that he had higher hopes for his interpersonal connections than frequent snark sessions and casual access to Dani’s magnificent breasts. Which wouldn’t be the first time she’d heard such a thing.

Then he raised his eyebrows and said, “The video?” And she realized she’d somehow veered down the entirely wrong track.

“Yes. Yes.” She nodded like a bobblehead, shoving those strangely nervous thoughts under her mental bed. “The video—and your semi-secret identity, let’s not forget.”

Zaf snorted. “Semi-secret identity? Really? That’s what we’re going with?”

Dani chose to ignore him. “You know, I might’ve listened to you drone on about rugby more often if I’d known you had a professional interest.”

“Would you, though?”

She thought for a moment. “No, actually. Never mind.”

His laughter faded far too quickly for her liking. “Listen—about the video. I just wanted to say, I’m really sorry. I probably didn’t need to carry you like that.”

He was apologizing? Really? “Zaf, you do realize it’s not your fault that a few students had nothing better to do than film and theorize about two random strangers they saw exiting a building, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah. But I don’t know if this kind of attention could get you into trouble, or—”

“No. I already spoke to my supervisor, and she’s not remotely bothered by what she called ‘internet gossip.’ Apparently, the whole thing is irrelevant to her life and to the department in general. So please don’t worry about that.”

“Good,” he said. “Good.” But he didn’t relax. If anything, she could almost see an edgy tension building around him, inflating like a balloon.

“You don’t like this, do you?” she asked, because suddenly she couldn’t hold the question in.

Zaf faltered. “What?”

“People talking about you.”

His gaze met hers, a hint of surprise flashing in the dark. “No. No, not really. Some things are fine, but others are off limits, and people never know where to draw the line. Doesn’t help that I—” He broke off, pressing his lips tightly together as if to trap the rest of that sentence.

“That you what?” She wanted to know because she’d always been horribly curious by nature, not because the exhaustion in his voice dug talons of worry into her heart or anything. God, no. Unless that was an ordinary feeling for work friends to have toward each other, in which case, yes, talons ahoy.

“That I have anxiety,” he finished, his jaw tense. “I like to think I have some control over my life. Makes things easier. But you can’t always control what people say.”

“No,” she said softly. “You can’t. The only thing you can control is what you do, and the things you do are frequently . . .” Lovely. But that was a disgusting thing to say. “Good,” she finished, rather pathetically. “The things you do are good. So. At least there’s that. I’m sure it doesn’t help much, when you’re . . . thinking . . . anxious things . . . but—at least there’s that.”

He watched her with a slow, quiet smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the warmth of his expression spilling over her like sunlight. “Good, am I?”

Oh, God. Oh, Christ. Couldn’t some passing, kindhearted citizen just bludgeon her to death?

But then Zaf’s gaze softened, and he said, “Thanks,” and Dani’s passionate wish for oblivion lessened, just a bit.

Still, it was time to move on before she said anything else ridiculous. “Since we’re on the subject—”

“I can’t wait to hear what completely unrelated subject we’re supposedly on,” Zaf murmured, because he was a bastard.

“Why don’t you tell me about this charity you run?”

Which is how she discovered that there was one topic grumpy, guarded Zafir was perfectly willing to discuss at length and without sarcasm. He lit up when he spoke about Tackle It, as if there were a tiny fire burning inside him, and making kids face their feelings on the rugby pitch fanned those flames. He described his week-by-week program, and she realized she’d never seen him so passionate before. He admitted he’d gone back to college to get qualifications in sports and psychology, and she realized she’d never seen him so focused. He muttered, “It’s not exactly successful, though. Yet,” and she realized she might actually kill to protect all of Zaf’s hope and tentative ambition and quiet, careful drive.

“Yet,” she repeated. “But soon. Aside from which, I’m sure your past must help.”

He looked up at her sharply. “What?”

“All your, er, rugby contacts and what have you. That sort of thing’s got to be a leg up.”

He looked strained. “I don’t like to rely on that. There are things in my past I’d rather not bring into the present. So I drew a line under it all.”

Snooping into the topics that made people turn quiet and rigid was not one of Dani’s favorite pastimes; all too often, it ended with someone who’d previously seemed quite sensible blubbering all over you. So she had absolutely no idea why some rogue, instinctive part of her demanded she pepper Zaf with questions until he explained exactly what he meant, and why there were shadows in his eyes all of a sudden.

Fortunately, he moved on before the urge could get the better of her. “Things are looking up since that video, though.”

Dani’s eyebrows flew up. “Really?”

“Yeah. Tackle It’s getting all kinds of attention. The thing is . . .” He shot her a look, one she couldn’t quite decipher, and shoved his hands into his pockets. But the flex of his muscular forearms told her those hands had curled into fists, out of sight. And the hard line of his jaw only confirmed that he was nervous.

Why was he nervous?

“The thing is,” he repeated, “it’s all because people think you and me are together. That hashtag, the couple goals thing . . .” He sounded so uncomfortable saying couple goals, Dani had to hold back her laughter.

“It’s silly,” she agreed, “but if it’s helping, that’s a good thing. Isn’t it?”