The Decoy Girlfriend(18)
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Her legs wobble like unset Jell-O in her absurdly high heels, but she makes it a gallant distance of all of twelve feet before Taft—and her guilty conscience—catches up to her.
She bobs to the left; he blocks her. She switches to the right; he mirrors the action.
Freya’s friends start forward. She shakes her head subtly, and they drop back, but she knows they’ll keep an eye out.
If she thought Taft looked sexy from across the room, he’s even more unfairly attractive from two feet away. Hot even in his obvious confusion.
His waves are more defined than they were at the bookshop, like he just hopped out of the shower. And his rolled-up blazer, exposing a pale forearm with fine brown hair just a shade lighter than the scattering of freckles darting up his elbow . . . Freya’s mouth goes dry.
“You look so . . .” Familiar. A furrow deepens across his forehead. “Who are you?”
Washed-up writer? Check.
Pathetic imposter? Also check.
Liar? Well, that’s the one thing she seems halfway good at.
For one wild, throwing-caution-to-the-wind moment, Freya considers telling him that she is Mandi. Testing if she can pull it off, striking the right note of anger and exasperation. Watching the confusion fade into embarrassment as he realizes this is totally his bad for not recognizing his own girlfriend. And Freya, being the benevolent and forgiving sort, will let him off the hook.
“We know what you’re up to,” Taft says, voice pitched so low she has to strain to hear him over the music. “Posing as her all over town to get free stuff. You had a good run, but the jig is up. You need to stop. Come with me.”
Freya’s blood thrums hot under her skin.
He’s going to call the police. He’s going to get Mandi involved. The whole thing is going to come out and everyone will know—Stori, her dad, the whole goddamn Internet—that the best thing Freya Lal has going in her life is pretending to be someone she isn’t.
When Freya makes no move to follow him, Taft reaches out, hand closing around her wrist. On these jelly legs, one, two tugs is all it takes to flatten her against his chest.
His entire face slackens with surprise as she stumbles closer than either of them expected.
Taft doesn’t lose his balance as embarrassingly as Freya did; instinctively, he braces her, hands circling her waist. For such a slender guy, his thighs are surprisingly strong and steady on either side of hers. She kinda hates that she notices. With their hips and chests flush, she has to tilt her chin up to look at him.
At this angle, with his mop of tousled dark curls, one flopped endearingly over his forehead, and his rosy lips parted, he could be Prince Charming’s double.
Okay, at any angle.
“Whoa,” he says on an exhale. “I’ve got you.”
Yes, he certainly does, her lizard brain whispers. During Freya’s spill, her hands had flattened against his chest, bracing herself. She can move now, but her body isn’t cooperating. And he’s making no effort to let her go, either. His hands rest lightly on her waist, a reminder that he wouldn’t let her fall even when he didn’t have a reason in the world to save her.
An electric thrill ricochets down her spine. Is it the whole club that’s slowed down or just them?
Freya swears that she hears the erratic pump-pump-pump of his heart against her palm. If she moves her hands up just a few inches, they’ll glide across his collarbones and curl around his neck. From there, it’s just a whisper-thin distance to his lips.
No, Freya, from there it’s jail. He’s probably already signaled security and he’s just distracting you with his masculine charms until they get here.
Well, he’s not going to succeed. She jerks away, rocking out of his arms in her haste to put as much distance between her and the solid feel of him as humanly possible.
Taft’s eyes are flared as wide as hers, mouth open with the start of a Sorry.
Freya overcompensates trying to collect herself, struggling with her own two feet. He swoops in, hands settling on her waist again. Their faces hover so close she can feel the warmth of his breath, second only to the coil of heat pooled low in her belly.
A crowd is starting to gather, the tension between them noticeable.
She sucks in a breath, willing the rising panic back down. “You’re making a scene.”
Taft’s jaw drops. “I’m making a scene?”
“Yes.” She places her hands on his upper arms. Oh. He’s slender but his muscles are well defined.
“Did you just feel up my biceps?” His voice is one-quarter amused, one-quarter annoyed, and two parts solidly confused.
Freya’s face is as straight as can be when she responds, “No, I don’t think so.”
Taft’s eyes narrow a fraction. His eyes disconcertingly map her face, as though he’s seconds away from figuring out that she’s Freya from the bookshop.
“Trouble in paradise, Mandi?” someone jeers, closer to Freya’s ear than she’s prepared for.
She flinches violently. As if on cue, a blaze of phone camera flashes go off all around them. The last thing Freya sees before she bolts is her panicked expression reflected in Taft’s burnished-gold eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
I expect this kind of bullshit from my other clients, Taft, but you?” Moira Lord frowns at Taft across the length of the conference table, more sad than mad. “What were you thinking?”