The Decoy Girlfriend(33)
Maybe, then, this Freya wouldn’t have been up until 2:00 a.m. with Mandi, being quizzed on everything from her first on-screen kiss (terrible); the directors she would never work with again (even more so); and all her interviews regarding her personal life, upcoming projects, and previous filmography.
At some point during the inquisition, when Mandi moved on to her ex-boyfriends—a topic Taft presumably already knew way too much about—he turned in with a mumbled good night. But not before first brewing the girls a fresh pot of coffee to see them through the night and washing up all the dinner bowls. Even though she tried not to be aware of it, it was impossible not to be: Taft was a cute host.
Because while Freya was getting a deep dive into Mandi’s friend group, Taft had tossed together a delicious microgreen salad the color of a summer sunset, with slivers of rainbow carrots and watermelon radish, jeweled pomegranate seeds, and sweet, bursting navel oranges. She and Stori mostly relied on takeout and three-ingredient, ten-minute meals, so his home cooking was the best thing she’d eaten in a long time, and Freya had gratefully devoured it while Mandi breathed down her neck to finish faster so they could get back to work.
If Freya thought Mandi’s Wikipedia page was thorough, it had nothing on the dossier she had to study. And like every test she’d ever taken in school, she’d aced it.
Freya’s next test is going to be astronomically more difficult. How is she supposed to tell Stori about moving out, without revealing where? Without mentioning the blackmail and that she’s living with a movie star’s boyfriend because she’s supposed to be the movie star?
Mandi was emphatic that Freya couldn’t tell anyone—anyone who didn’t already know at least, once Freya came clean about her friends’ preexisting knowledge.
If Freya tells Stori, though, she doesn’t put it past her protective aunt to get involved. And that’s the last thing Freya wants, her flesh and blood knowing the mess she’d made.
If she were still here, Mom would be so disappointed.
“Morning, Freya,” says Stori, hiding a yawn behind her cup of tea as she comes downstairs. She’s already enviably put together. “Didn’t hear you come in last night.”
Freya takes in the faint half-moons under Stori’s eyes with a flicker of guilt. Making sure she came home safe is something Mom would always do. “I’m so sorry, I should have texted. Did you wait up?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you had a fun night out. Tea?”
“No, thanks,” Freya says quickly, holding up a shot of espresso.
“You’re definitely your father’s daughter,” Stori says, smiling around the rim of her cup. “I’ve never developed a taste for coffee. Looks like something from an oil change.”
Freya quickly winds her hair into a low bun before Stori notices the change in color, and forces a light and bright tone to her voice. “Don’t let him hear that! He gave you that Bialetti three Christmases ago, and it was still in the box until I showed up.”
Stori snorts. “There’s no way you’re guilting me when Jay hasn’t even cracked the spines of any of the books I’ve sent him.”
“Dad hasn’t even read my book yet,” Freya points out. Same as most of the family to whom she gave free copies, but that’s author life for you.
“But your mom and I read every draft, the advanced-review copy, and the final version. Speaking of, if you need an alpha or beta reader . . . hint, hint.”
Freya cups a hand around her ear. “What was that? You were being too subtle.”
“Fine,” Stori says with a long-suffering sigh. “If you don’t want to talk about your book, then at least satisfy my curiosity about where you were last night. And with who. And did you do something different with your hair?”
Freya gives the bun a self-conscious pat. “I was . . . working.”
Not technically a lie. Delicious dinner and Taft’s deft fingers aside, Mandi’s quiz had been nothing short of brutal. She was a way more unforgiving taskmaster than Stori ever could be.
“There’s nowhere in LA conducive to getting writing done at that time of night.” Stori’s eyes sparkle like the New York City skyline Freya misses so much. “Wait. Were you with a guy?”
“No!” Lie. “I have a deadline!” True.
“One does not preclude the other,” Stori says dryly. “A girl’s still gotta get some.”
“Okay, I love you, but never say that again,” says Freya. “And it does if you’re me. The only body part I need to be thinking with”—she taps her forehead—“is this one.”
“And these,” says Stori, making a crude gesture with her fingers. “Don’t forget these.”
“I cannot with you,” Freya groans. She could have gone her entire life without that allusion to masturbation. Sister Stori she loves and Boss Stori she appreciates, but Talking-About-Sex Stori is one Stori too many.
“What? Get your mind out of the gutter. I was totally talking about typing.” Stori smirks. “But since you mention it . . . Marcus has a work friend—” her aunt starts to say, but Freya cuts her off with a scoff.
“Stori, your boyfriend only knows tech bros. I love that he tries, but I cannot be set up with another guy who makes conversation like he’s giving a TED Talk.”