She was too fierce and too smart to doubt. The only thing he could say was “All right.” The only thing he could feel was relief.

“And,” she went on, “I have something that might help your nerves. I mean, it always helps me when I’m nervous, so . . .” Dani’s voice trailed off as she began fiddling with the mess of leather cords she always wore around her neck. Zaf had spent way more hours than was healthy wondering what hung off those cords. His current favorite theory was that she kept every engagement ring she’d ever been given, kind of like how Russian princesses used to sew jewels into their clothes before they fled the country. He’d read about that in an older romance novel he’d found at the local library.

A woman like Dani must deal with proposals at least once a month, and since she was mind-numbingly posh, all the rings were probably platinum-and-diamond situations from white guys whose great-great-great-great-grandmas once fucked Henry VIII. So when she pulled off the necklaces and Zaf caught sight of loose, colorful stones hanging from each one, he knew straightaway that his favorite theory was 100 percent wrong.

Which was fine, since he was about to learn the truth.

“Here,” she said, disentangling a small, bloodred stone from the rest. “Just for the interview.”

Zaf held out a hand for the swinging pendant. “Thanks . . .” he said slowly. “What is it?”

“It’s a garnet. I wear it for my grandma Gigi—her name is Garnet—but it also brings balance, strength, courage. Good for career things.” She dropped the cord into his palm where it curled like licorice. The stone was warm against his skin—warm from her skin. This was what she wore every day, tucked safely under her clothes like a secret? He looked up and found her watching him, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.

“You believe in this?” he asked.

She lifted her chin, her gaze sharpening. “Yes.”

“I’m not trying to say shit,” he told her.

The tension left her shoulders, but she shrugged as if she didn’t care either way. He didn’t believe it. Zaf was beginning to notice that Danika cared about more things than she let on, including him. The evidence was warm against his chest right now: she believed in this gem stuff, and she’d given him one, like sharing a slice of faith. That mattered. It mattered so much his bones ached. He put on the necklace, tucking the little red gem safely under his clothes. “Thanks,” he said again, and this time the word came from somewhere deeper.

“You’re welcome,” she said softly, and for a moment he thought he saw the same hazy tenderness that filled him reflected in her eyes. But then she shook her head, standing a little straighter and flashing a little brighter, like Hollywood lights. “All right,” she told him briskly, hooking her arm through his. “Let’s do this. Don’t forget: we are young and in love and boundlessly affectionate.” As if she were an actor coaching herself before she went onstage.

But nothing—nothing—about the last twenty minutes had been acting. None of it had been performance, none of it had been fake. And suddenly, Zaf was gripped by the urge to pull her back, look her in the eye, and make her admit it.

The only thing stopping him was the knowledge that pushing too hard made things snap.

Ten rushed minutes later, Dani found herself seated on a surprisingly uncomfortable but chic-looking bench in a surprisingly well done but tiny room. Apparently, she was way behind on the norms of modern radio, because there was a camera blinking at them from the right, and the footage it recorded would, they’d been informed, eventually find its way to YouTube. Seemed like everyone had to diversify their income these days.

Luckily, Dani had dressed to impress one Zafir Ansari, so she looked generally presentable. And Zaf himself was always disgustingly hot, so no problems there. For a moment, when the teenage assistant had explained the filming element to them, Dani had worried it might trigger more anxiety for Zaf. But he’d touched the slight bump created by the garnet beneath his shirt and nodded.

A burst of something tender and possessive had hit Dani then, leaving her breathless. It was just as strong as the sorrow that had carved itself into her bones when he’d told her about his family. She’d wanted to kiss him. She’d wanted to cry. She’d wanted to tell the world how incredible he was, because he’d dealt with all that but look at him—look at him—he was still fucking going.

Only, she couldn’t do any of those things, because they all seemed excessively passionate, and the only passions Dani typically permitted herself were sexual and professional. Anything else had to make it past the committee, and the board had not approved Feeling Intensely for Zafir. The board had approved Shagging Zafir, which, more to the point, was the only proposal Dani had actually submitted.

At that moment, Zaf’s hand nudged hers on the cool, plastic surface of the bench, cutting off her thoughts. She looked up, met the dark honey of his gaze, and saw a secret smile, just for her. Pleasure zipped over her stomach, skating between her breasts, warming her from the inside out. Then he hooked his little finger over hers, a tiny connection hidden between their bodies, one the camera wouldn’t catch—one even the radio presenter wouldn’t see across the equipment-laden table—and Dani was forced to remind herself that Zaf was just getting into character. Method acting, or something. They were performing their relationship, and he was putting his all into this scene. Nothing more.

The music filling the room faded away as the presenter, a beanpolelike white man who was all messy hair and huge, horsey teeth, fiddled with a slide-y type thing on the table. Apparently, his name was Edison. Dani had never heard of him, as she preferred Radio Four.

“Allll right, then,” he began, before nattering away about the song he’d just played in a smooth, dark-chocolate voice that didn’t remotely match his appearance. With his oversized, raggedy jumper and enormous eyes, he looked like the ghost of a Victorian child shoved into skinny jeans.

Dani was in danger of zoning out completely to explore the parallels between Radio Trent’s evening presenter and nineteenth-century children when she heard their pre-discussed cue. Which was, for the sake of simplicity, Zaf’s name.

“. . . Zafir Ansari, former rugby union flanker for our very own Titans, and his girlfriend, Danika Brown. These two have kicked up a storm recently as the social media sensation #DrRugbae. Welcome to the show, guys.”

“Cheers, mate,” Zaf nodded.

Having decided that feigning demureness was the best route (until Zaf needed her to leap in and attack, anyway) Dani dimpled prettily and murmured, “Hello.”

“So, how do you guys feel about the whole Dr. Rugbae situation? That first viral video—what was that like?”

“It was . . . unexpected,” Zaf said ruefully. Dani had wondered if he’d clam up, but now that he’d gotten past his initial nerves, he was cool and collected and charming in a way he usually hid. If she were a stranger watching this, she’d think he was absolutely fine—confident, even.

But she wasn’t a stranger. She felt the rigidity of his hand against hers, and knew he was concentrating so it wouldn’t shake. She heard the rough edge to his voice, and knew he was uncomfortable speaking to so many listeners. She saw him rub a hand over his short, thick beard, and knew he’d probably planned this carefully, so carefully, but was still worried about the unpredictability of the format.

So Dani leaned into his side and pressed a useless, impulsive kiss to his shoulder. Then she wondered what the fuck she was doing and if she’d been briefly possessed by the spirit of a 1970s local politician’s wife.

Zaf looked down at her, flashing the ghost of a grateful smile that melted her middle like gooey chocolate. And suddenly, kissing his shoulder—faking casual affection, rather—felt like the smartest, most accomplished thing she’d ever done.

Which, considering her general excellence, was really saying something.

“And what about you, Dani?” Edison asked. “How are you coping with social media stardom?” He said the words with a wry irony she appreciated.

“It’s . . . quite sweet,” Dani said, which was an absolute lie. In reality, being a social media sensation for a week had started to feel slightly creepy. “I must admit,” she added with a laugh, “I could do without the comments from women who want Zaf for themselves. He’s otherwise engaged.” That was Fake Girlfriend Dani talking, obviously, not Actual Dani. Actual Dani didn’t care about that sort of thing because Actual Dani had no claim on Zaf whatsoever.

Something in her stomach lurched.