The Decoy Girlfriend(57)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Don’t even think about it,” warns Taft.
Freya yelps, the undignified sound only springing from her throat because he caught her by surprise. Her finger, poised over the Delete key, twitches at the same time Hunka Junk almost topples from her lap. She steadies it before it can crash to the floor.
Hen, rudely awoken, slopes away from the couch with a disgruntled look at the human disturbance.
Flustered, Freya glares at Taft. “How long have you been standing there?!”
He’s holding a mug the size of a cereal bowl, the indescribable scent of his favorite brand of coffee from the neighborhood farmers market wafting over. He doesn’t always drink it himself, but he brews it every morning for her. It makes the house smell amazing, particularly because he has this thing about grinding his own beans.
“Long enough,” he replies cryptically. “Why is the last thing you wrote ‘I’m pretty sure the actor is trying to kiss me’?” His eyebrows waggle.
“I typed ‘kill,’ not ‘kiss’!” Horrified, she brings the screen down. Narrowing her eyes, she demands, “Wait, were you reading over my shoulder?”
One, rude. Two, he doesn’t get to tease her about the kiss.
She can’t stop thinking about their electricity at the photo shoot. When she’d felt his lips respond, kissing her back with a fervor that rivaled her own, Freya had thought for sure that when they went home that night, everything would be different. That he’d take her in his arms like he’d done at the shoot and quit pretending he didn’t want her the way she wanted him.
But her anticipation had been forced to go on the back burner for hours. Under all the bright lights, her makeup had melted several times and had to be retouched. The multiple wardrobe changes and hours of posing until August was satisfied with the promotional stills. The stiffness in her back and shoulders, the migraine from the constant instruction and sensory overstimulation. By the time the shoot was over and they got home, she was too wiped to do anything but go straight to bed.
Now they’re finally going to have to face the undeniable truth: he can’t hide from his feelings anymore.
Taft hands her the mug, which is still spiraling with steam. “Is that hot guy based on me?”
“This is a gross invasion of privacy! It wasn’t ready! You can’t—! It’s not—!” she sputters. “And who said he was hot? Now I have to delete it!”
“I mean, his character sure sounds like me. Looks like me, too. Wavy brown hair, fey-like eyes, impish lips made for—”
“You can’t just shamelessly consume someone else’s screen! This is intellectual property theft! This is—this is— Stop smiling at me like that when I’m trying to be mad at you!”
Taft shoots Freya an entirely unrepentant grin as he sits down at the other end of the sofa. “I couldn’t resist. You’ve got me curious about what you’ve been working on.”
“You and everyone else. But you’re just going to have to wait.”
“Fine, fine.” He heaves an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll join your legions of adoring fans.”
Lips halfway to the mug’s rim, she commends herself for holding back her snort—barely.
That pipeline has long dried up. She’d consider herself lucky if Nigerian princes or spam bots find her website’s contact form these days.
She can’t help but tease him. “One kiss is all it takes for you to adore me?” She takes a sip of coffee, unable to keep herself from humming with pleasure the second it hits her taste buds. Taft knows exactly how she takes her brew. One sugar and just a splash of almond milk instead of creamer. She likes her coffee to taste like coffee, not like milky, sugary rocket fuel.
“Of course I— Um, what I mean is, I’m sorry. I was a dick. I didn’t mean to ice you before.” A flush crawls up his neck, scorching his ears red. He scratches at the scruff on his jaw, still looking steadfastly anywhere but at her. “I don’t know how to be just friends with you. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’ve basically knocked me out of my equilibrium.”
Freya resists an eye roll. “There is a middle ground between ravishing me and treating me like I’m radioactive.” Not that he seems to have found it. “I mean, you’re not one of those guys who thinks men and women can’t be friends?”
He looks mildly offended. “Of course I don’t think that. I’m friends with Mandi.”
“So then why the icicles?” She holds her arms out like bat wings, imaginary icicles hanging off her elbows.
The corners of his mouth relax, and he rakes his hand through his hair, oblivious to the way his casual tousling is making her mouth go dry, and her traitorous stomach muscles tighten.
What’s more annoying is just how good he looks unshaven, a little bit of that apocalyptic disheveled look that actors on zombie shows always wear. He probably doesn’t even realize how much it works for him, and Freya would have told him if not for his unwelcome rules preventing her from crossing the line between friend and more-than-friend.
Taft throws an arm over the back of the sofa, fingertips just shy of touching her shoulder. His fingers twitch on air. “Come on. You’re not looking for any distractions right now, either. You have a deadline that comes first.”