The Decoy Girlfriend(52)

Her smile hits him like a sucker punch. It’s a hell of a lot better than the tentative ones they’ve been exchanging post-rules. Taft can resist a lot of things but not the temptation that is Freya Lal. He dares any human to try. Didn’t even need all ten things in the ten-secret game to fall for her—hard.

“Yeah, we had fun. Hen introduced himself to everyone we met, including one very brave squirrel,” Taft says, forcing a laugh as he crosses to the sink to rinse out his reusable Gatorade squeeze bottle.

Guilt cramps his stomach when he realizes these are the first words they’ve exchanged today. The last few days he’s been starting the coffee for Freya, then slipping out the door for a crack-of-dawn run, returning rosy and sweaty only when he knows she’ll be deep in her writing.

But not even all those miles can put distance between how he feels about her.

Not now that he knows exactly what his sheets smell like when she’s slept on them.

“How’s the writing going?” Taft asks, nodding to her open laptop.

Freya downs the dregs of her tomato juice, the tip of her tongue darting out to catch a stray drop on her lower lip. “It’s going. I hit a little bit of a stumbling block, but, um, nothing I can’t handle.”

Hmmm, evasive and mysterious. He opens his mouth, not sure what’s going to come out. Maybe Tell me more about your manuscript. Maybe I take everything back, I didn’t mean it, please forgive me.

“What do you feel like having for lunch?” he asks instead.

Freya blinks. “Oh, um, anything’s fine. Do you need help?”

He waves her back to her laptop. “Thanks, but nah. You and Hunka Junk should make the most of the day. Day after tomorrow’s going to be pretty hectic with the photo shoot.”

He swears she looks disappointed. Then her expression clears and she gives her screen a determined look, pushing her shoulders back and nodding.

“You’re right,” she says. “Thank you.”

He whips around before he can take it back. Even though his shirt is sticking to him and he’d love to take a cold shower for reasons, he needs to save his wrist for chopping vegetables. He pops in his AirPods in an obvious Do not disturb and opens the fridge, rifling for lunch ingredients.

Ever since he was a kid, working with his hands has helped him relieve stress and anxiety. The days he cooked were the only times Taft ever felt like his older brothers were jealous of him.

And in the last few days, cooking has anchored him, kept him from being swept away or pulled under by the sheer depth of his feelings for Freya. The first day of his self-imposed rules, when he’d wanted nothing more than to sweep her hair away from her face, he’d busied his fingers with making hot honey wings and roasted corn; day two had been saucy pasta with summer vegetables and his favorite Michigan cherry wine, and he’d had a hard-on all through dinner thanks to her “yummy” noises.

Now, Taft hums as he plucks fresh herbs from his window box herb garden. Homemade Margherita pizza topped with plenty of basil and zingy mint lemonade sound like the perfect distraction.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work. Five minutes into rolling out the dough, flour dusted over his knuckles, it’s obvious that ignoring Freya is statistically impossible. With every click and clack of her keyboard, he’s reminded of the woman who has taken up a presence in his home—and in his heart.

Playing it safe has never felt so dangerous before, like Taft is a pot left boiling too long.

Be like Waffle House, he tells himself sternly. No matter what crap befalls you, keep going. Stick to your plan. You can deal with temptation all day long, but you know you can’t handle losing your heart.

A little later, Taft pulls out his AirPods. “Lunch is ready! It’s such a nice day, want to eat on the patio?”

“I could use some fresh air,” Freya agrees, getting to her feet. Her hand lands on top of Hen’s head, idly scratching as though she isn’t even aware of it. “I’ll help you carry everything outside.”

“I’ve got it,” he starts to say, but it’s too late.

“I’ve got it,” she insists, tugging the pitcher of lemonade out of his hands.

Her fingertips, warm from typing, graze his. He sucks in a sharp breath. Every single sense is magnified by her nearness, so he doesn’t protest when she snatches the glasses and silverware, too.

Taft’s backyard is a small oasis. The kitchen door leads out to a prettily paved patio with a teak dining set and just barely enough grass for Hen to run around. The tall privacy fence keeps out nosy neighbors, the view obscured even further with lemon and clementine trees. Hen races through the door ahead of them to sniff at a fallen fruit before determining it isn’t a toy to play with.

“This is really nice,” Freya comments as she pours the lemonade. “Stori and I don’t do a lot of cooking, so I really appreciate, you know, all of this.”

“Taking care of you is the least I can do.” Taft’s face freezes in a guilty expression. “While you’re here, I mean. With me. Not with me, but living in my— Hey, do you want some arugula with that?” He gestures at the arugula side salad with a bit too much enthusiasm.

There’s a nice breeze out, but maybe Freya’s hot, because her whole face is pink. “Please,” she says.

He gives her a serving, then, remembering the bag of gummy bears, adds another forkful.