The Decoy Girlfriend(35)

“Okay,” she says, trying not to freak out. Striving for blasé and cool and not at all like proximity to him might make her erupt in spontaneous fangirl. Or, worse, change her name and flee LA so she won’t embarrass everyone. “What’s so worrying that you had to come here, where anyone could catch us?”

“It occurred to me that, um, people act differently around each other after they’ve been intimate.”

What feels like a century of awkward silence inches by.

“I mean sex,” says Taft, flushing the prettiest shade of pink.

Freya swallows. “Yeah, I did get that.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it after I got in bed.”

“Oh?”

Taft gives her a look, guessing where Freya’s thoughts have taken her. “There’s a familiarity in the way they touch, look at each other. We won’t have that.”

The smile drops off Freya’s face. He’s not suggesting that I . . . that we . . .

The space between the stacks narrows until everything fades and it’s just him and her. His chest didn’t seem quite as broad yesterday, nor his curls so messy.

“Listen, Taft, I know that this is really unfair to you,” she says, hoping her voice doesn’t leap about like her jackrabbiting heart. “Why don’t you just tell Mandi that you’re not comfortable faking it with me? You’re right, we’re strangers, and there’s no chance we can get away with this. They’ll see right through this absolutely unhinged con, and that’ll be embarrassing for all of us.”

He ignores Freya’s not entirely selfless advice, worrying at his bottom lip until it turns as red as his cheeks. “Actually, I was thinking . . . more along the lines of getting to know each other a little better.”

She snorts. Somehow, his embarrassment has the exact opposite effect on her. Exuding a confidence that her heart doesn’t reciprocate, she asks, “Vocal cord–wise or carnally?”

“Freya,” he hisses.

It really is too easy to embarrass him. “Calm down, I’m kidding.”

Taft runs a hand through his hair, presumably trying to smooth it, or maybe it’s just a nervous habit, but either way, it only musses it even more. “Aren’t writers supposed to be shy?” he asks, a bit grumpy, as though he’s somehow been misled.

“I think you mean introverted, not shy,” she corrects. “And not all of us.”

“You’re right about that,” he mutters.

“So how do you want to do this? Strip down? Lay bare our vulnerabilities?”

He works his jaw. “You’re using those words on purpose.”

She can’t help but tease him. “As a writer, yes, I am very purposeful with my words.”

“Speaking of words,” says Taft, apparently deciding a change of topic is safer ground. “I also wanted to offer my support. You had some very justified reservations about moving in, and believe me, I get it. If you want me there when you talk to your aunt, I’m here for you.”

The crackling energy between them pivots to something distractingly caring.

She blinks. “Oh, that’s . . . sweet. But, um, to be honest, I still have no idea how I’m going to tell her. Mandi was pretty clear about keeping our arrangement a secret.”

“Screw that,” he says firmly. “Stori’s your family. You shouldn’t have to lie to her for us.”

“I’ve been lying about a lot of things for a lot longer than you’ve known me. And yes, I realize that doesn’t speak in my favor, but sometimes a lie is preferable to the truth.”

He scowls, dark brows almost touching. “I have never found that to be the case.”

“You’re an actor. Your tradecraft is in lying.”

“Says the fiction writer. Who isn’t exactly a stranger to wearing a mask herself.”

Pot, meet kettle. He’s not wrong, but the words still bring a surprising sting.

Somehow their bodies have instinctively angled toward each other, and even though they’re not touching, his minty breath warms her face, and she’s close enough to count the smattering of freckles across his exposed collarbone. Close enough to push his back against the shelves and tilt up to kiss him.

But he’s taken—off-limits.

Taft is the first to pull back before the moment boils over. “When enough of your life is fake, you start to value what’s real all the more. Trust me. Be honest with Stori before she finds out some other way.”

Freya shakes her head. “I don’t get you.”

He said he’d do everything in his power to help the people he loves get what they want. While part of her thinks it’s super weird he’s this devoted a boyfriend, the other, bigger part admires him for his loyalty. It explains why he’s willing to get to know a random girl wearing his girlfriend’s face just so the aforementioned girlfriend can get a “break” from her charmed life. But it doesn’t explain why he’s going out of his way to help Freya, to whom he owes nothing.

His crooked grin makes her stomach spin faster than a tumble dryer. “What’s to get?”

“You and Mandi. She’s willing to leave you to some opportunist’s clutches?”

“You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that,” he says with a frown.