The Decoy Girlfriend(55)
She remembers Mandi telling her that, along with the advice that playing mysterious and coy was a good way of saying something without actually divulging anything that could get her in trouble. When in doubt, Mandi said, confirm nothing. Fan the flames of speculation—nothing was sexier than a secret.
Taft’s jaw unclenches, and he gives an approving nod at Freya’s save.
“Guess it’ll be a surprise for everyone,” says August. “So you two already know the aesthetic we’re going for here. There’s a couple folks from the production company here pushing hard for sultry clinch cover–type poses, but I’d like to experiment with something more understated, if you two are cool with it?”
“Sure,” says Taft. “I’m happy to take your direction.”
August grins. “Great! Taft, I was thinking you could start off by staring moodily into the fire.” They raise their camera to their face. “Really look like you have a problem. Hint at everything to come.”
He does have a problem. Freya holds back her snort.
Taft keeps the glass in his left hand but uses his right to brace against the fireplace, bending his head to look like he’s transfixed by the flames. The fabric of his tailcoat stretches magnificently over his broad shoulders, and the photographer immediately makes a cooing noise of approval.
“Yes, yes, that’s perfect, Taft. Hold that pose.” August snaps a photo of just him. “You’re really worried about whether you and Mandi are going to survive this movie. The bad guys are even bigger and badder than before. You’re losing hope that you get to walk away from this fight. Mandi, comfort him. Do what feels natural to you.”
Freya bites her lip and takes a step closer to him, lightly placing her fingers on his sleeve. Taft’s head swerves to her, hand jerking just enough to slosh some of the liquid.
“Hey, talent, try not to make us pay damages!” the set designer barks, followed by some nervous laughter from the assistants. “On-location cleaning fees are a bitch.”
“They’re fine!” August shouts back, not pausing in their glut of photos. “Carry on!”
Freya ignores all of it. She nudges the glass out of Taft’s hand, raising it to her own lips.
“Yes!” shouts August. They take a flurry of shots, moving closer to zero in on Freya. “I love that, Mandi. It’s inspired. Why shouldn’t a woman have a Scotch if she wants one? This is Mandi Roy’s world, and we’re all just living in it.”
August isn’t wrong, Freya thinks wryly. She mentally banishes the audience and takes a sip, just enough to wet her lips. It’s the wrong kind of liquid courage, but it’s all she’s got. Emboldened, she tips the glass back for a deeper swallow, fingers wrapped tight and secure.
Taft doesn’t look away. Neither does Freya. She parts her lips, tongue chasing after a stray bead of iced tea that clings to the rim. She watches him visibly swallow. Their gazes lock in a silent battle of wills.
When Taft doesn’t make a move, August attempts to give them some direction. “Taft, at the end of season four, Mandi’s character was in the middle of confessing her feelings for you but was cut off by her own scream. Can you take that current quiet intensity you’re rockin’ and add some pining in there? A dash of fear about your future together? There’s something so scary about losing love before you even get a chance to have it, right? Can you channel that?”
Freya watches the flames and indecision reflect in his eyes and dance across her glass. She doesn’t think it’s just Bowen’s Instagram photo that has him so rattled, but whatever has him frozen, he needs to snap out of it.
“Actually, hang on. The vibes are kinda off. Are you guys okay?” asks August. “I don’t know, you were both great just a minute ago, but together, you seem a little . . . stiff? We can take five if you need.”
The slightest suggestion that the sinking-ship rumors about Raft were right sets off a ripple of whispers among the bystanders. The last thing they need is a “source close to the couple” leaking gossip about their lack of chemistry at the photo shoot.
Freya presses her lips together. She’s trying, but Taft is emotionally giving her nothing in return, the human equivalent of a frozen steak. “No, we’re good!” she chirps, hoping August buys it.
“I’m going to touch you now,” she then says in a voice low enough for only Taft to hear. Before he can even blink, she thrusts the glass into his palm. She’s going to need both her hands for this.
With her right hand, she curls her fingers into his cravat, while her left snakes around the back of his neck so she can tug herself closer. The seamless synchrony of the move seems to stun him, because several seconds pass before Taft takes a ragged inhale.
“Scared, Bamber?” Freya whispers. “All these layers of irritating Victorian clothing will safeguard your virtue, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” She’s half teasing, but he doesn’t crack a smile.
August must like the cravat grab, because they don’t shout out any further encouragement. They’re far enough away to keep the shots wide, capturing the glamorous ambience of the room. Over the flurry of snaps, Freya’s sure she can hear her own heartbeat keyboard-smashing.
“That’s not what I was afraid of,” says Taft.
The first thing she registers is the use of past tense: was. The second is that he didn’t deny being scared of something.