The Decoy Girlfriend(46)

It isn’t lost on Taft that Freya does not take Henry for a walk that day or any of the next. He picks up her slack, walking Hen himself, and chooses to find her stubbornness lovable instead of exasperating.

Instead, every day, she diligently settles herself down at his dining table or on the green velvet sofa with her laptop, rather adorably nicknamed Hunka Junk, and types in such a ceaseless stream that it crosses his mind once or twice that she might be getting paid by the word.

She shoos him away every time he tries to peek at her word count, but he notices that if Hen claims the opposite end of the sofa, paws almost touching her feet, she—after a few frightened glances over the top of her screen—doesn’t withdraw her toes. Progress, Taft thinks with pride. Both on her book and with the dog.

With her imagination, the other stuff comes a lot easier to her: she’s bubbly and charming in their practiced Instagram Live “We Moved in Together!” living-room tour. To Mandi and their managers’ glee, their movie-date pics rack up a ton of likes and comments when Freya’s camera timer catches her tossing caramel corn in his mouth. But none of that holds a candle to the way their notifications blow up at the cuteness of their soggy appearance on a sunny afternoon giving Hen a rather disastrous bath. Clearly, pet pics are always a winner.

She insists on doing the dishes every time he cooks and alternating buying groceries at the farmers market, even though he doesn’t think it’s necessary. She’d blistered something about not being a burden when he’d tried to broach it, though. If it makes her happy, he will happily let her pitch in for whatever her heart desires.

They’ve fallen into the picture of domesticity ever since their first breakfast together, which was possibly the nicest morning-after Taft’s ever had. Not that he’s had any lately with a contractual commitment hanging over his head, but still. Having Freya there is nice.

Even though he wakes up on the couch each day with a stiff back, he doesn’t mind. He enjoys making the coffee every morning, knowing the nutty aroma of freshly ground beans brewing will lure her out of sleep like a beacon.

“Taft!” she almost shrieks now when she sees his feet sticking out over the arm of the velvet sofa. “I thought you were sleeping in the spare room?”

He blinks blearily at her, waking up an entirely different kind of stiff. This Freya seems to be yelling at him, while the one in his dream was doing other, far more pleasurable things with her mouth. “Go ’way,” he mumbles, grateful that he’s conscious enough to adjust the blanket over his hips. “Sleeping.”

“Yes, and very uncomfortably from the looks of it.”

He barely registers the note of censure in her voice before the cushions dip and the warmth of her backside presses against his ribs as she wedges herself onto the sliver of the sofa’s edge.

His eyes fly open. “What are you doing?”

She’s scowling down at him, and he immediately holds his breath in case it’s gross.

“Taft, I assumed the spare room was a guest bedroom. Or at least had a futon!”

“Until now, I’ve been so busy in Dartmoor that I haven’t had the chance to furnish it. Anyway, no one’s visited me here, so . . . There’s just some boxes and weights in there.”

“I shudder to think what this is doing to your back. I would never have accepted your bedroom if—”

His hand shoots out to grasp her wrist. “Let me stop you right there. There is no way I’m making a woman spend the night on the sofa while I sleep in a bed.”

Freya opens her mouth, presumably to argue some more, but he surges up, now fully awake. Whatever she was going to say is swallowed by a squeak as her hand comes into contact with his bare chest. “Are you naked?”

He can’t decide if she’s horrified or interested. Either way, she hasn’t blinked for at least twenty seconds. He grunts and readjusts the blanket with his free hand. “I’m wearing boxers.”

Her palm smells like the coffee she’s probably just finished stirring, the botanical face serum she uses every night, and, curiously, the faint woody muskiness he associates with libraries. He wants to distill it into a bottle that he can carry around with him always.

Rosy from sleep and fresh-faced like this, she looks more like herself than she has in days. Her eyelashes are naturally long and curled even without those ridiculous falsies.

I want to wake up to this woman every day.

He glances down. “Um, would you mind?”

Freya’s cheeks flame. “You’ll need to let me go, first.”

“Right,” he says hoarsely.

That makes sense. That is reasonable. That . . . would require his muscles to cooperate, first.

She stares at his fingers lightly clasping her wrist. “You still haven’t—”

He lets her go.

Without her warmth, he feels cold and bereft, even though the temperature is perfect. He can’t shake the urge to press his lips over her pulse point and make her squeak again.

To inhale the scent of her skin like he has every right to. Resentment seethes in his chest that he doesn’t. He wants her, but he doesn’t get to have her.

He’s never hated that ironclad contract binding him and Mandi together more.

“Actually, I have an idea.” Freya tilts her head, considering him for a long moment before offering her hand. “Do you trust me?”