The Decoy Girlfriend(38)
“It’ll be fine,” Taft says, reading her silence for what it is. When they park at their destination, he pauses while slipping the keys into his pants pocket. “We’ll be fine.”
“I know,” she lies.
It’s not “we” that Freya’s worried about—it’s her. It’s nice of him to treat them as a unit, but the success of tonight depends solely and wholly on her bad habit of being a damn good liar.
He glances at her. “You might want to tell your face that.”
There’s a flash of movement, a metallic glint from the street. She starts to turn toward it, but Taft steers her toward the front door. Her bravado isn’t buoyed by his solid presence, not even when he wraps an arm around her waist and tucks her into his side as they pass through the open gate.
“Did you see that?” she whispers. “Someone’s following us with a camera.”
“It’s an occupational hazard. Probably the same vulture who’s been—” He stops abruptly.
Frazzled, she’s about to demand he finish the sentence when the front door flings open.
“Happy birthday!” Freya blurts brightly to the stunning woman behind it.
The birthday girl, Mandi’s friend Jennifer, is white, statuesque, and blond.
The stunning woman in front of them is . . . not.
Shit. Freya needs to backtrack. The mistake curdles in her mouth until the other woman laughs.
“Like Jen would ever get the door. Start drinking early tonight, Mandi? That’s not like you.”
Freya should deflect, say something light and witty. She should have a repartee at the ready. She should do literally anything else except stand here with all the charisma of a boiled chicken breast. But her Diored lips stick together as her brain goes on high-speed blender mode, trying to improvise.
Taft’s fingers squeeze her hips, and instinctively, she knows he’s going to cover for her. “My fault, Phoebe.” He nails the Sorry, not sorry smirk as he teasingly adds, “We were celebrating with a bottle of Dom earlier. She’s such a lightweight.”
Freya understands his subtle cue. Immediately, she places the woman in front of her.
Phoebe Reid, one of Mandi’s oldest friends, half Black, half Argentinean, is famous for being famous. Her dad plays a doctor on a popular medical drama and was named People’s Sexiest Man Alive last year, while her mom has her own line of athleisure, which her actress-influencer daughter is the face of.
Phoebe’s eyes flit to Freya’s bare ring finger. “Celebrating?”
Taft keeps firm, even pressure on Freya’s hips as though he’s trying to ground her. His touch is two-fold, a tumultuous cocktail of comfort and arousal. The former is fine, but the latter is, well, distracting.
But Freya has a role to play, and he’s already set her up with the perfect opening.
“Oh, we don’t want to steal Jen’s limelight tonight. We both know she’d never forgive me,” Freya says playfully, placing her hand right over Taft’s heart.
It’s a well-known secret that Jennifer James’s jealousy went from passive-aggressive to aggressive-aggressive ever since Chanel chose Mandi to be the new face of No. 5. Where Mandi is undoubtedly the de facto It-Girl Heroine of Hollywood, Jen always plays the girlfriend, sister, or best friend.
Taft takes the affection a step further, tugging Freya against his chest and nuzzles his nose behind her ear. It’s a ticklish spot, and she hopes the tiny tremble that wracks her shoulders is mistaken for a shiver of pleasure instead of surprise.
Phoebe grins and steps aside to let them in. “So, no ring, but there is something. The rumors of trouble in paradise have obviously been greatly exaggerated.”
Taft winks. “Don’t believe everything you read.”
When Phoebe’s back is turned, Freya whispers, “Thanks for the save.”
Taft doesn’t reply, but his eyes are soft as he nods. They don’t need words to convey that they have to be more careful if they’re going to get through tonight unscathed.
While Jen’s two-story Tuscan-style white stucco with a red clay mission tile roof is all charm on the outside, it does a complete one-eighty inside. Glass and chrome are everywhere, a sunken living room with oversize white leather sectionals, and a back wall with floor-to-ceiling windows that lead out to a huge balcony overlooking a pool. It’s a big house by any standard, but especially by LA’s.
“What was that earlier?” Freya asks, raising her hand to self-consciously touch her neck.
Taft subtly herds them away from a group of people trying to get their attention. “That, sweetheart, was improv. Good job not jumping out of your skin.”
The casual endearment throws her, but not as much as the phantom tickle of his skin against hers. “You didn’t tell me you were going to do that!” she protests.
“I won’t always be able to,” says Taft. “We have to sell this. You do know what ‘improv’ means, don’t you?”
She smiles between gritted teeth. This is not amusing. “I’m not struggling with the definition. Just the . . . application. I’d appreciate some warning next time.”
“Because I found one of your erogenous zones?”
Freya snags two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter. “You are being very . . . distracting.”