The Decoy Girlfriend(21)
He flashes her a grateful smile. Then it occurs to him that while he and Mandi were in the doghouse, the Mandi look-alike got off scot-free.
She didn’t get dragged out of bed at an ungodly hour to get yelled at. She’s probably still in bed, blissfully unaware that she made our world implode.
Taft doesn’t realize he said any of that out loud until Mandi gives him a startled look.
“Don’t be too sure about that ‘blissfully unaware’ part,” she says lightly, raising her hand to hail a passing taxi.
“What do you—?” The taxi pulls to a stop in front of them. “Wait, what about your car?”
Her smile speaks of secret things, the insouciant shrug not half as subtle as she thinks. “Mind making your own way home? I need my car for . . . something else.”
That’s pretty vague. He eyes her as she shepherds him into the taxi’s hot leather back seat. She’s definitely up to something. There’s no mistaking that self-satisfied crow to her voice.
Taft’s stomach growls as he hangs his head half out the window. Since Mandi didn’t get to eat a donut, in solidarity, he hadn’t helped himself to one, either.
“Right now? Do you have to? I’m ravenous. I could eat . . . I could eat . . .” He genuinely can’t think of an animal large enough to convey just how hungry he is; even elephant falls short. “There’s something I have to tell you. I thought we could grab brunch at Loupiotte Kitchen,” he finally settles on.
“Come to mine tonight. We can talk, and I’ll make you dinner,” she promises. She rattles off Taft’s Los Feliz address, then bounds back to the curb. There’s a look of determination on her face he usually only sees when she’s running lines before a scene.
“You’re cooking?” She’s definitely up to something.
“Hey, I cook on occasion.”
“Only when you want to impress a guy or demand a favor,” Taft says with a snort. “You don’t have to butter me up, Mands. Just ask.” That’s what friends do.
Mandi gives him a genuine smile. Briefly, he wonders whether anyone has ever said that to her. He knows they’re friends because they have to trust each other so much, but he doesn’t know if she would choose him on her own. Their relationship had started out transactional—what if that was all it would ever be to her?
“I’m still feeding you,” she insists. “But first I have a . . .”
Whatever else she said is swallowed up as the taxi merges into traffic, but over the whoosh of wind in his ear, Taft could have sworn she’d said she had a doppelg?nger to find.
He sits back and laughs under his breath.
Yeah, right. What are the chances of Mandi running into Bookshop Girl in a city this big?
CHAPTER SEVEN
You’ve got this, Freya. She waits for the boutique owner, fingers tightening around the small jewelry box she’s been clutching for the last five minutes, trying to wipe her slate clean.
After last night’s catastrophe, she’d made up her mind: no more impersonating Mandi Roy.
Never again. Never ever. Not in a million years. Last night cut it too close for comfort. And even though Freya had been able to make a break for it in the confusion of camera flashes going off—Taft’s attention distracted just enough to lose her in the crowd—it’s time to stop.
It’s been fun, but it doesn’t make Freya feel good about herself anymore. It’s like overdoing it at drinks with the girls; the third sparkly cocktail feels like a good idea, but the next day she’s full of regret. Sure, she’ll miss it. But it’s for the best.
Every part of Freya’s life is in a rut right now—romantic, social, professional—but one day, she’s going to be her again. The Freya Lal that she was before.
And it’s going to be amazing. Once she hands in this book, she’s finally going to explore the city and meet new people. Date without feeling guilty and find a guy who puts all her book boyfriends, past and present, to shame. Her life will be back on track and getting caught as a petty impersonator does not fit into her life plan.
Which is why Freya got to the boutique right when it opened for the day, in her Mandi masquerade for the last time so she can return the gorgeous earrings she should never have accepted in the first place. She had tried her best to shake off materialistic freebies, but sometimes salespeople are so insistent that saying no would seem unconscionably rude, and she never wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings. At least getting into clubs without waiting in line or getting a dessert comped on her lunch bill was pretty harmless.
It’s not as though Freya would swan into places saying I’m Mandi Roy. If she looked the part, people tended to draw their own conclusions.
A few feet away, browsing a jewelry case full of minimalist gold jewelry, a young woman around Freya’s age glances up. She does a double take, recognizing “Mandi.”
It’s nothing short of magical how an extra hour spent dolling up can transform her into Mandi’s mirror image. A swipe of Dior Rouge 999 on Freya’s lips is the razzle-dazzle of the magic wand; the white pumps that make her legs go on for miles and lend her those extra few inches of height are the vaunted glass slippers from the fairy tale.
Freya offers the other shopper a small smile, because that’s what Mandi would do. She’s known for her warmth toward her fans. The girl squeaks and resumes browsing, eyeing Freya every few seconds. She looks as though she’d like to ask for a selfie but can’t summon up the gumption.