The Decoy Girlfriend(36)
“I can be self-deprecating if I want.” Freya rolls her eyes. “?‘Honest with Stori,’ ha! The guy who’s about to embark on a fake relationship with a decoy girlfriend does not get to judge me.”
“Why not? It’s not like it’s any more fake than my ‘real’ one,” he shoots back.
There’s that inflection again. The same one Mandi had.
His face drains of all color. “I didn’t mean . . .”
A wave of understanding washes over Freya. “Taft.” She waits until he makes eye contact. “Are you and Mandi in a fauxmance?”
His unblinking stare is horror-struck. “We’ve been calling it a showmance,” he mumbles.
Oh hell. This is infinitely more convoluted than even the most chaotic, unhinged ghosts of Freya’s first drafts past. She and Taft are a fake relationship hidden within another fake relationship.
He doesn’t need to ask her to keep it a secret, because at this point the ever-growing list of things they aren’t allowed to tell is far more than what they can. Besides, with all the leverage they’re holding on each other, it’s mutually assured destruction. Not the greatest start to a relationship, she has to admit.
“So everything you were saying about ‘people act differently’ after they’ve had sex?” Freya asks, a little cautious and a little jealous about the answer.
“I’ve never slept with Mandi,” Taft says tiredly. “But we’re friends. It makes it easier to pretend. I don’t really enjoy casual touching with most people, but in my line of work it’s kinda unavoidable. She and I don’t cross any lines.”
Freya’s suddenly exceedingly glad she squashed any impulse to kiss him.
As though he’s read her mind, Taft says, “I like it when you— That is, I mean— I don’t mind if you— And you did give me an open-ended invitation to touch you. So.”
She laughs under her breath. “It’s cute that you’re more awkward in-person than you are on camera.”
“And you’re less shy than you were at my house.”
“Yeah, well. I was a guest then. Now I’m your roomie.”
His kaleidoscopic eyes are unreadable. “Girlfriend.”
“Decoy girlfriend,” Freya replies, perhaps too glibly, because he looks like he’s biting back whatever he really wants to say. She takes a step closer with her hand outstretched. “Can I?”
At his answering nod, she slides her hand up the softness of his tee, the bony jut of his collarbone, and, finally, his neck. He’s holding himself rigid, but after a minute, the tension ebbs out of him. When that happens, she cups the side of his face, feeling the exact moment he relaxes.
“So you and Mandi have never slept together, but you’ve obviously kissed, right? That’s something that’s probably expected of us, maybe even tonight at the party? So should I . . . ?” She lets her words linger, letting him grasp the meaning in her pause, just in case it’s not what he wants.
“I was going to suggest chatting over coffee, but your take-charge method works for me.”
At his throaty words, confidence spurs her into motion. Freya closes the gap between their bodies until she’s nestled into him, her face in the crook of his neck and shoulder. His hands skim the waistband of her jeans, warm thumbs finding the cool sliver of skin between the denim and her emerald puff-sleeved satin blouse.
“You look good in green,” says Taft, voice deeper than before. His irises glow gold.
A gasp tumbles out of her mouth before she can thank him. His right hand reaches into her hair to pull it out of its bun. His handiwork spills over her shoulders in perfect glossy waves. Fingers tighten into her scalp, a pleasant prickling reminiscent of his slow, steady strokes with the comb. Freya chases the sensation, arching against him just a little.
He visibly swallows. “You know, I never thought I had a librarian fantasy until I saw you.”
She gets the feeling he’ll kiss just like he acts. With single-minded focus, a commitment to what’s right in front of him, and a driven desire to make it good.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t get the opportunity to find out.
“Freya, do you know where I left the—”
Later, Freya will realize Stori’s tone was already frustrated, as though she’d been calling for Freya a few times already, but she’d been too wrapped up in Taft to notice. Before she can disentangle from him and put a respectful distance between them, Stori rounds the corner.
It takes two seconds for her eyes to bug out at the sight of Freya in Taft’s arms. Whatever she was going to ask wilts on her lips. Her mouth opens and closes multiple times, guppy-like.
Then Stori’s stunned gaze lands on him, and Freya sees her connect the dots.
Stori nods in their direction. “So this is what we’re calling ‘work’ these days?”
Taft manages a shamefaced, dimpled smile, coupled by biting his lower lip.
Yes, it is work, actually. Freya tries not to ogle him. And also yes, there are some great perks.
She’s tempted to make up something on the spot about how they hit it off the first time he came into the store and they’ve been keeping it quiet because he’s in a staged relationship with his costar, but then she remembers his advice.
“Stori, can we talk upstairs?”