The Decoy Girlfriend(19)
The sun glares mercilessly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the eighth-floor office Taft and Mandi were hauled into, thanks to early-morning wake-up calls from their frantic managers. Taft takes a desperate sip of his water and tries not to make it obvious that he’s not looking at her but at the 3D words popping out from the wall behind her that read lord & fine management, instead.
He also tries desperately not to think about the girl in the damnably sexy red dress who got them into this mess to begin with, but she’s been invading his daylight thoughts with the same ease as she’d slipped into his dreams.
He’s finally placed her, but he’s keeping her name to himself. He doesn’t trust Gareth with it, especially because the man won’t care if a random, nameless girl gets doxed if she’s outed as a fraud. A part of Taft thinks he shouldn’t care, either, after everything that’s happened, but then he remembers he does know her name: Freya. Bookshop Girl. Absolute menace.
Think about how much trouble you’re in. Think about your reputation circling the drain.
Her face punctures through every attempt to distract himself.
Think about the paparazzi—mostly paunchy, graying, middle-aged dudes—in their underwear. No, don’t think about nudity, because that leads to . . .
Taft digs his blunt fingernails into his palm, the sting almost as intense as his dreams last night. Think about anything other than the girl in red and the way she’d felt against him, sending his impulse control off-kilter. How he’d ached to bend his lips to hers and discover her body like a secret. The heat of her mouth, the softness of her inner thighs, the leaping pulse at her throat.
It’s useless. His resolve is made of butter. No matter how much he implores, cajoles, and bargains with himself, Taft can’t think about anything else other than her.
“He wasn’t thinking,” corrects Gareth Binghamton. “And now his drama is rebounding on my client.”
All four of them stare at the laptop open to TMZ, at the appalling headline and the damning picture of “Mandi” wrenching herself away from Taft like he’s a stranger.
Which technically he is. But he’s not going to mention that.
Because for some reason, after driving down Melrose Avenue this morning in silence—spines ramrod straight and excruciatingly awake even without coffee—Mandi turned to him from the driver’s seat with that look on her face that he could never say no to.
“Hey, Taft,” she said. “What if we didn’t tell them it’s not me in the picture? I mean, if they can’t tell the difference . . .”
Then, before he could even fill her in on the dots he’d connected, she rolled her Audi into a parking spot in front of Lord & Fine’s Constellation Boulevard address just a minute before their appointment, ending with only a whispered “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
He still doesn’t know what Mandi’s up to, but he’ll follow her lead. And he can always divulge her look-alike’s identity after the meeting.
Taft tunes back in, catching Gareth mid-insult.
“He’s not in his soapy CW shows anymore,” says Gareth snidely. “He’s in the big leagues now. He has to act like it.”
Taft’s jaw ticks, and he stares at Gareth until the older man breaks eye contact first.
Mandi flushes before flicking her eyes Taft’s way. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is you two fucking up a good thing,” says Gareth. “You’re being paid ridiculous money for one of summer’s biggest tentpole movies, and all you have to do is pretend to date until those first-week box office numbers hit.”
Taft crosses his arms. “What happened to ‘All publicity is good publicity’?”
Gareth gives him an evil look. “Whoever said that wasn’t part of the Internet era, where everything lives on forever to be mocked and memed.”
“Look,” says Taft. “We’re done with postproduction. Nothing we did is going to jeopardize the release. What happened last night was regrettable, but I promise you that won’t happen again.”
Gareth snorts. “Really? You think you can make it until the July-first premiere?”
Mandi nods emphatically.
“It’s just a month,” Taft bites out.
Gareth continues as if he didn’t even hear him. “You’re both attractive people. Surely it isn’t such a hardship for you to be seen having a good time in each other’s company? Spotted kissing and grabbing ass somewhere with good lighting and plenty of people? You didn’t use to be this prudish with other boyfriends, Mandi.”
“Classy, Gareth.” Moira scowls. “We all know the optics are bad. What’s done is done.”
Whatever else she thinks, whatever other choice words she has for Taft, she’s keeping it to herself until they’re in private. Despite her reputation as a straight shooter, Moira doesn’t believe in public dressing-downs. Two of her best qualities, other than being a savvy manager.
Gareth operates differently. When Mandi reaches for one of the glazed donuts that Moira’s assistant left next to the bottles of cold water, he clears his throat in a meaningful way.
Mandi smoothly changes direction, plucking a Red Delicious—arguably the least delicious apple—from the fruit bowl like it’s what she’d been going for all along.