The Decoy Girlfriend(31)
Dear god. She makes a small sound that sounds like a croak, then spins herself around before he can see the full-blown lust in her eyes. What the fuck, Freya. You cannot go after Mandi’s man.
He hums under his breath, returning his attention to Freya’s hair. Her scalp’s starting to feel a little warm, and it wouldn’t surprise her one bit if the bleach fumes were making her lower her inhibitions a frightening degree.
“Just about done. And for what it’s worth, Freya is a prettier name than Randy,” he comments, a hint of humor in his voice as he crinkles a piece of foil around the last section of hair. “What does it mean?”
“It comes from the Old Norse name Freyja, the goddess of love and beauty.” Freya gives him a wry smile. “Also war and death. My mom got her master’s in Viking and Medieval Studies at the University of Oslo, then came here for her PhD in Scandinavian studies. My paternal grandfather was her thesis adviser here. He’d invite her for family dinners and holidays because she was so far from home, which is how she met my dad. He wasn’t a folklorist like Mom, but they both loved the name Freya.”
His fingers slide to her neck, ostensibly playing with the baby hairs on my nape. “Where does the ‘Anjali’ come from? I noticed ‘Freya Anjali Lal’ on your book cover.”
“Um, well, it’s not part of my legal name. My mom, Anjali, passed away shortly before my book published. I would never have believed I could write a book if she hadn’t encouraged me every step of the way. She never let me forget that I had magic in my fingertips.”
His idle touching stills. “I’m sorry. It’s a beautiful name.”
“It is,” she agrees. “It’s Sanskrit for ‘divine offering.’?” Freya cups her hands together, palms out, to show him the pose. “I wanted to honor her memory by using her name.”
“I know it’s not the same, but I kinda get it? I got some funny looks for my name when I started out. Agents and managers said shit like ‘I’ll consider signing you if you change it to something less weird.’ It was made pretty clear that it had to go if I was going to make it as an actor. But our names aren’t just ours, they’re the history of everyone who came before. I’m proud to be Taft Bamber, even if I did get teased in school for my first name being the same as a president who’s known for getting stuck in the tub.”
Freya stifles her smile, even though he can’t see her face. “I like your name. And I like it more knowing how hard you fought to keep it when it would have been easier to give it up.”
She’s not sure what it is about him that makes her this earnest, especially given their more combative exchange at the bookshop. Maybe because he’s being the same way with her. She should really, really not like him as much as she does. And yet . . .
“I’m so sorry this is taking forever,” she babbles. “If you think it was bad today, you should have seen it in high school, when it was waist-length and thick enough to smother someone.”
“Freya.” He moves to stand in front of her. Taft doesn’t touch her, but her name in his mouth caresses her skin in one shivery syllable. “I wanted to take my time with you.”
Oh. Oh. She throws her eyes to the ceiling as if it’s more interesting than the frank, disarming expression on his face.
Are there aphrodisiacs in the atmosphere of Los Feliz? Because that’s the only explanation for this proximity crush. So then, naturally, it would follow that the air at the club was similarly tampered with. In fact, she’s starting to think that whenever Taft is in the vicinity, entire neighborhoods turn dangerous.
“Are you done flirting yet?”
Mandi’s complaining voice makes Freya jerk, almost toppling off the stool.
Taft’s hands are there to steady her, but he releases Freya way faster than he did at the club. It looks like he’s painfully aware of how they got into this mess to begin with.
It’s hard to tell whether she’s grateful for his restraint or grumpy about it.
“Just finished, actually,” Taft says blithely, taking the mixing bowl to the kitchen sink. His voice sounds careful and professionally neutral. “She’s all yours. It still needs a few minutes for the color to lift, and then I’ll tone and trim two inches.”
Mandi’s eyes, so like Freya’s own, but far more suspicious, dart between his back and Freya’s flushed face. “Did you tell her what Gareth and Moira came up with?”
His shoulders stiffen, and he runs the tap at a full flow instead of answering.
“Mature!” Mandi yells. She settles down on a leather wingback chair. “Guess he didn’t. Okay, doppel-Freya. Don’t freak out.”
“Whenever someone says that, it’s never followed by anything other than impending disaster,” Freya points out, not loving the new nickname. “I reserve the right to freak out.”
Mandi casts an irritated look at Taft, clearly wishing he had done the hard work of breaking the news. “Fair, but just know that we’re adults here and this is so not a big deal, because someone has more than enough space for two more and is just being ornery about the most practical living situation.”
She seems to be expecting more pushback than Freya gave her about the cut and color.
“Thanks to you two and that stunt at the nightclub, our managers have decided that we, well, need to be managed better. And that means a lot more public appearances to sell that we’re the perfect couple and definitely neither of us cheated.” Mandi crinkles her nose. “There’s an itinerary of events I’ll get them to scale back on, and, um, a few strong suggestions that are less suggestions and more . . . edicts.”