The Decoy Girlfriend(29)

He’s barefoot and there’s a shoe rack next to the door, so she slips off her black slingback block heels.

“In the daylight, you look—” He stops himself.

“Less like her? And now an inch shorter?”

It’s not surprising. Freya’s makeup is minimal, just enough to make her look awake.

“I was going to say,” he says, throwing her a sharp look, “that you look different. More like yourself.”

Taft leads the way from the foyer to the living room. The polished hardwood flooring continues throughout the open-concept house, along with the herby, welcoming scent of sweet basil and citrus fruits. As they go deeper inside, he closes all the windows and draws the gauzy white curtains.

Unlike Mandi, Taft is practically a poster boy for soft furnishings.

Plump, squashy pillows line the back of the three-seater emerald velvet sofa, the rolled arms looking like something out of a London library. Faded Persian rugs overlap on the floor, anchored by a toffee-colored leather ottoman and, endearingly, a pair of ragged house slippers.

The mid-century modern teak and walnut furniture is warmly finished, popping against the white walls almost as much as the brass-framed Klimt prints and the enormous square mirror propped against the wall opposite the sofa. The decoration is minimal but welcoming.

In short, Taft Bamber’s living room is nothing short of a West Elm wet dream.

Mandi’s perched on a wide, squarish white armchair with rattan-embellished arms. She looks effortlessly cool and chic in a floral wrap dress that Freya recognizes from the Anthropologie website’s latest summer arrivals.

Freya’s gaze drops to Mandi’s lap.

Mandi’s wielding a pair of barber scissors and a wicked smile. “Welcome to Mandi’s Next Top Model.”

Freya is too stunned to move until Mandi whisks a nylon cape around her shoulders and beckons for her to sit on the barstool Taft’s carried from the kitchen.

She stares at the scissors and then shoots her eyes straight up to Mandi’s face. “You want to cut my hair? I agreed to memorize your study guide, not put my literal neck on the line!”

“You’ve been lucky so far that no one’s noticed your hair is a teensy bit longer than mine and a couple shades of brown too dark,” Mandi says breezily, snapping the scissors open and close. “It’s one thing fooling a bouncer or a ma?tre d’, but you’re going to be in rooms with my manager, my friends, pretty much anyone in Taft’s and my social circle. You have to be ready, and you have to be convincing.”

She’s not wrong. But it still rankles.

“Can’t we go to a salon?” Granted, Freya won’t be able to afford any stylist Mandi goes to, but if it has to look flawless, box dye isn’t going to cut it.

“Not if we want to be discreet. Don’t underestimate the speed of the gossip network. Now sit.”

“Have you ever cut hair?” asks Freya. “Because, no offense, yours is no home hack job.”

“I’m not your stylist,” Mandi says, nodding to Taft. “He is.”

The alarm must show on Freya’s face, because Taft laughs under his breath. “Believe me, this is not how I thought my day would be going, either,” he says, rolling up the sleeves of his loose-fitting white linen shirt. “But I used to do this all the time, so I do know what I’m doing.”

Freya suspects they think she’s being a big baby. Losing a few inches and pigment isn’t nearly as risky as Mandi trusting Freya with her entire career, for mysterious reasons that she didn’t divulge to Freya.

“Okay,” Freya says, the word tugged out and reluctant and filled with fervent prayers to the hair deities, but it’s all the permission Mandi needs to step aside and let Taft take her place.

The heat from Taft’s chest and abdomen warms Freya’s back, and while he and Mandi talk quietly about what needs to be done, Freya zones out.

Not the smartest decision, especially when the stink of bleach tingles her nose, but she can’t keep up with words like “color developer” and “levels” and “toning shampoo.” She has virgin hair because her mom was convinced that coloring your hair makes you go gray faster, and Freya thinks it’ll keep her anxieties to a minimum if she doesn’t overanalyze what’s happening behind her.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” says Mandi, pressing a hand to her temple. “The peroxide always gives me a splitting headache. Tell me when her hair’s all foiled so we can go over logistics.”

Taft’s breath ghosts over the shell of Freya’s ear. “Hope you studied.”

Goose bumps sprinkle down her neck and upper chest. He’s being politely friendly, but the words hold a warning.

“What happens if I fail?”

If he notices the faint wobble in her voice, he doesn’t let on. “Don’t fail.”

She scoffs. “Real helpful advice. Look, you’re her boyfriend. Can’t you talk her out of this?”

His lips quirk as if he’s amused. “When the people I love want something, I will do everything in my power to help them get it.”

It’s a disarmingly honest answer, and one she didn’t quite expect. But then, Taft seems full of surprises. “Is that why you’re playing along?”

His fingers gently touch her scalp, and it takes everything Freya has not to jump. “I do need to touch you for this part, if that’s okay.”