Zaf frowned down at her. “You shouldn’t read those.”

“And you should know very well by now, darling, that you can’t tell me what to read.” Although he was right, and after the third comment she’d come across describing how gross and bald she was, and how she and Zaf were disgracing and/or diluting their respective races, Dani had decided to return to her lifelong avoidance of social media. She was lucky Gigi had coached all the Brown girls on the nature of fame long ago, just in case any of them ever followed in her show-biz footsteps—or, alternatively, took part in The Great British Bake Off and got caught screwing Paul Hollywood in a field. That had been the example provided, anyway. Gigi was a firm believer in Paul’s raw, animal magnetism.

“Just so everyone knows,” Zaf grumbled, leaning closer to the microphone like an old man with a poor grasp on high-tech sound equipment, “I go through that hashtag every night and report anyone who says sh—stuff,” he corrected himself, his scowl deepening, “about Danika. Or about us being together. And if I see any of you—”

Dani squeezed Zaf’s hand and laughed loudly before he could threaten anyone with bodily harm on public record. He was clearly invested in the protective boyfriend role, because she could almost feel the heat rising off him. “Relax. What really bothers me is the hashtag itself. I’m not actually a doctor,” Dani said. “I’m a Ph.D. student. So Dr. Rugbae isn’t entirely accurate.”

Edison burst out laughing, though she had an inkling his amusement was more frantic gratitude that she’d changed the subject. “There’s a note for all our listeners—she’s not a doctor, she’s a doctor in waiting. Academic types are strict about this.”

Her cheeks heated. Wasn’t everyone strict about factual accuracy? They should be, anyway.

Edison chuckled some more, then moved on with impressive efficiency. “You two were filmed at work, during that famous fire-drill rescue. You’re in security now, right, Zaf?”

“That’s right.” Zaf still seemed vaguely annoyed that he’d been prevented from issuing threats, but he was clearly trying his best to sound pleasant and interested.

“That’s not all you’re up to these days, though, is it?”

Oh, lovely. Edison was steering things quite nicely, and once you got past the haunted eyes of a starved Victorian infant, he seemed a friendly and capable man. Dani smiled beatifically and kept her mouth shut as Zaf launched into an explanation of Tackle It, while Edison, bless his soul—he was growing on her by the second—asked all the right questions and delivered all the right prompts.

While Dani had planned to cast her mind elsewhere during this segment—there was only so much interest she could feign for anything rugby related—she found herself strangely fascinated by the discussion. Perhaps because Tackle It was less about rugby itself, and more about equipping young men with the tools to understand their emotions and express them beyond the boundaries of toxic masculinity. Or perhaps it was because Zaf lit up with passion as he spoke, and the gentle glow she’d always been drawn to now burned from his gaze like the sun.

He was . . . wonderful. Brilliant and bold, especially when he said things like “I love sports, of course I do—but the culture can easily become toxic. It’s not enough to say, That’s not me. Like, all right, nice one, but what are you doing to fight it?” She’d always known his grouchy grump routine hid an unexpected softness—but she was starting to notice something else in him, too, a steady core that radiated strength and peace and other cool, immovable things. She heard it echoing in his voice when he said, “You’d never tell an athlete to just get over a sprain; you’d give them time to recover, physical therapy, whatever they needed. Why are mental health conditions any different?”

At one point, Dani realized with a blush that she was nodding along beside him like some sort of hypnotized acolyte. She stopped, of course. But as she leaned closer to him, like the tide drawn in by the moon, it occurred to her that she could think of no one she’d rather fake date. Whoever ended up with Zaf would have a partner to be dizzyingly proud of, wouldn’t they?

Well, maybe. Or maybe the romance he prized so highly would go to his head and his desire for the ideal partnership would devolve into a toxic need for perfection that led him to ultimately and brutally betray his lover. Based on personal experience, empirical evidence, most literary canon, and plain old probability, that seemed far more likely than a boring, uneventful life of contentment and faithfulness.

Even if, for some reason, she couldn’t quite envision Zaf in the role of Textbook Arsehole.

Most likely, then, he’d be the one who ended up hurt, all his sweet illusions shattering like glass. That possibility caused a discordant clang inside Dani that she found quite disturbing.

Eventually, the discussion of Tackle It was expertly wound down by Edison, and Dani waited for more music to be played so she and Zaf could be ushered away. Instead, the deejay rubbed his hands together menacingly—if the poor, juvenile victim of a centuries-old workhouse could be considered menacing—and said with obvious glee, “All right! Before we say good-bye to #DrRugbae, the team and I have cooked up a fun little game to find out if you guys are couple goals”—he pressed a button that created some sort of cheering effect—“or a total fail.” Another button, this time with a boo.

Dani shifted in her seat, frowning over at Zaf. What on earth was this? No boos. She was too accomplished to be booed. And Zaf spent his free time teaching little boys how to feel, so he certainly shouldn’t be booed. In fact, if anyone dared to boo him, she’d stick her stiletto firmly up their arse. Dry.

While Dani’s temper continued to quietly unravel, presumably due to the stress of the unknown, Edison reached beneath his desk and produced two small whiteboards with dry-erase pens Blu-tacked at the top.

“So how this works is, I’ll ask you questions about each other.” He handed them each a board. “You write down your answers, then we see if they match. It’s a bit like they do on Love Island—you watch Love Island?”

Zaf looked bewildered. “Er . . .”

Apparently, he’d completely missed that particular phenomenon. Fascinating.

“Never mind, never mind,” Edison said. “Let’s jump right in, shall we?”

Dani narrowly resisted the urge to say, No. We shall not.

At her side, Zaf veered with impressive speed from confusion to horror to unmistakable panic. Their eyes met, and Dani could almost read his mind. She’d bet money on him thinking, at this very moment, How the fuck are we supposed to answer these questions when we’re not really together? I haven’t even shagged you yet.

She tried to send back something along the lines of All in good time. And at least you know about my arse tattoo.

Perhaps the telepathy attempt didn’t work, because he failed to laugh.

“Question number one,” Edison said, blissfully unaware of his guests’ simultaneous internal meltdowns. “We’ll start easy. Zaf, how does Dani take her tea?”

Zaf stared. “So now I . . . ?”

“Now you write down your answer, Dani writes hers, and we see if they match.”

Zaf looked dubious. “All right.”

“Also, you have ten seconds.” Edison flashed them a toothy grin, tapped a button, and a rather high-pressure clock noise filled the room.

“Oh, Christ,” Dani muttered, staring at her whiteboard. She suddenly had no idea how she took her own tea—and, more important, neither did Zaf. If they were really together, he’d be able to answer this, wouldn’t he? Oh dear. If a ridiculous game on a local radio station exposed their lies, Dani might just burn this place to the ground.

After a tense few seconds, she scribbled down her answer without much thought—since they were utterly doomed and absolutely nothing mattered—and waited with dread for the timer to end and Zaf to get this question hideously wrong. Really, it wouldn’t be the end of the world, she told her racing heart. No one would hear them fail some radio game and come to the ludicrous conclusion that their entire relationship was a sham. But they might decide that Zaf was a shitty boyfriend, or that their relationship in general was shitty—how had Edison put it? A fail?—and for some reason, that idea bothered Dani severely.

“All right, time to share.” Edison grinned. “Zaf, what’s your answer?”

Zaf flipped his board, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Green. She, er . . . well, she doesn’t drink regular tea. But she drinks a lot of green tea. So. Green.”

Dani stared.

Edison was clearly horrified that she drank anything other than breakfast tea, but he hid it well. “Dani, what’s your answer?”

She flipped her board.

And now Zaf was the one staring.