The Decoy Girlfriend(37)

“Why not? It’s not like there’s anyone working checkout, anyway,” she says acerbically, eyebrow pointedly raised.

Freya winces. Okay, she deserved that.

“I’ll watch the store for you,” offers Taft. “I’ve worked register before.”

Stori is entirely unimpressed. “In real life or on a set?”

“Perfect, thanks, Taft,” Freya says hurriedly.

“Fine.” With one last daggered look at the both of them, Stori stalks out.

“I’m sorry about that,” Taft says after a long, excruciating silence. “Don’t get me wrong, this was hot, but our first kiss should be . . . I don’t know, special?”

Freya drags her teeth across her lower lip.

How special can it be when we’re both pretending I’m someone else?

“No worries, I’ve got this.” She grabs her cup. “You were right, before. About honesty.”

He nods, but the set of his mouth is a little dejected. Whether it’s about their kiss being interrupted, Stori finding out like this, or even how tonight’s going to go, Freya has no idea.

To be fair, she wouldn’t blame him if it was all of the above. Because, same.

But she still has confidence strumming through her veins, so she’s not going to leave it at that.

“And for the record,” Freya whispers as she extricates herself from him and their almost, “call me a writer cliché, but I do love libraries. There’s always something about things that should be untouchable that make you want to violate their sanctity more, isn’t there?”





CHAPTER ELEVEN



The girl reflecting back at her in the side mirror looks about as far from a librarian—even a sexy one—as possible. Freya tries to pick out one feature that looks distinctively like herself, but can’t. It’s oddly disappointing, even though that’s the whole point. If she and Taft get busted tonight, it won’t be because of her makeover skills. Everything is on point.

She’s no stranger to becoming Mandi for the night, so why does this feel for the first time like she’s giving up something? Something valuable?

“You’re thinking too loudly,” says Taft. He’s driving them to Mandi’s friend Jennifer’s house in West Hollywood, just a few minutes away from Sunset. “Sure you don’t want to talk about how it went with Stori?”

“I told you she was fine with it.”

Well, as fine as she could be when Freya hadn’t given her much of a choice. Stori had been intent on trying to talk Freya out of it, even threatening to talk to Taft herself, but Freya knew it was no use when Mandi was the one in charge and had every intention of holding her to it. So she assured her worried aunt that her promise to Mandi wouldn’t interfere with her novel deadline or picking up the occasional shift at the bookshop.

Taft makes a noncommittal sound. “You know, you can tell me real stuff, too. It doesn’t all have to be fake.”

Freya gets the feeling he’s trying to connect with her, trying to bond, but it’ll be too hard to pretend to be Mandi if she shares too much about herself.

And tonight and for the foreseeable future, Freya is the one person she can’t be.

Honestly, she probably shouldn’t even mind that. It’s not like she was able to open up about her writing struggles with Stori, Alma, or her friends, anymore. Sometimes it feels like making things up is her only talent in life. Freya’s walls are so high that if those closest to her can’t scale them, the guy sitting next to her has no chance.

But the more he says sweet shit like that, the more she wants him to try. Which is scary, because even though he isn’t Mandi’s for-real boyfriend, which still boggles her mind a bit, this is risky enough without complicating it with real feelings.

Which means what happened in the stacks can’t happen again.

“I get what you’re saying, but maybe we should just keep it professional tonight,” Freya says tightly. “I can’t afford to slip up. Maybe you can compartmentalize, but I’m not an actress.”

“Freya—” he starts.

“Which means you should probably just call me ‘Mandi’ even when we’re in private.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t signed your whole life over to become a clone. It’s only a few public appearances.”

On which Freya’s whole real life depends. It’s a difference without a distinction.

Without warning, his hand lands on her knee. She startles, thighs swerving away and an audible squeak escaping between her lips.

“You can’t do that every time I chastely touch you,” says Taft, voice ringing with bitter amusement. “As you so eloquently put it, Mandi and I have gone further than this in public.”

He says “eloquently” like he really means “crassly.” If he wasn’t worried before, now he should be. She was pushing to become more familiar earlier, and now Freya’s squirming and blushing like an untouched virgin, when all he did was place his hand on her knee, arguably one of the least sexy body parts.

Embarrassment wars with the sheer amount of want rampaging through Freya’s shaved, exfoliated, and dewy body. Mandi had sent all her holy grail products over to Taft’s, where Freya had gotten ready now that it was officially her home sweet home. With the managers breathing down their necks, the living arrangements were nonnegotiable, so she hadn’t fought Mandi on it. But it’s starting to sink in that while Freya may look the part, she’s afraid that her unpreparedness is written all over her face.