The Decoy Girlfriend(6)
“Any men in your life?” Skye glances at Freya’s open laptop. “Ones who aren’t fictional?”
“Nonfiction and I are amicably separated.”
“Life isn’t nonfiction.” At Freya’s eyebrow raise, Skye concedes, “All right, it is. But you’re not going to find love standing still with both feet on the ground and your nose buried in a bo—well, computer. One day you’ll be as moldy and decrepit as me, you know.”
“?‘Moldy and decrepit’ are about the furthest words I’d associate with you,” Freya says, scanning the topmost book in her pile. “We’re talking North Pole far.”
And it’s true: Skye McKenzie, of indeterminate age, is as spry and sharp-tongued as ever, with a shock of electric-blue hair and bright floral dresses her wife sells at their co-op.
“That’s true,” she agrees. “I was exaggerating to make my point. But don’t forget, summer is for falling in love and being swept off your feet. That’s what my mother always said.”
Freya fights back a wry grin. Lately the only men capable of even an ounce of dialogue that might elicit feelings of love, or even lust, only exist in books, TV, and 300,000-word fanfiction that keeps her up until 5:00 a.m. The chances of her meeting anyone of any gender this summer are zip, zilch, and zero. Especially with this deadline hanging over her head like a guillotine waiting to drop.
Sure, love would be nice, but the timing is all wrong. Freya’s disastrous luck with men aside, she has a career to get back to. If she doesn’t have something to give her publisher soon, she’ll have to return her advance. She doesn’t have that kind of money in her bank account these days.
And even if she scraped it together, the shame of having a canceled book will follow her like the worst sewer stink. Every single publisher out there will know that Freya Lal, former literary darling, isn’t good for it. Even thinking about the possibility makes Freya want to hurl.
Actually, no. Freya takes it back. She categorically does not want to hurl. Regurgitated tea would taste more dreadful than the usual stewed-lawn-clippings kind.
“You know,” says Skye, “there’s so much going on in LA during the summertime! Listen, why don’t you come to the barbecue my wife and I are throwing next weekend? You might hit it off with someone.” She snorts. “Unless, of course, you’re waiting for someone to waltz through those doors.”
After her epically humiliating morning, Freya can’t deny the warm fuzzies making a home in her chest when someone’s taking an interest in her for her and not because they’re mistaking her for her more glamorous look-alike.
“You never know when opportunity will knock,” Freya says agreeably. “Sure, if the right person walks in here, I’ll be so swept off my feet, I’ll practically fall over.”
“Oh, I’m not a sadist,” Skye says gaily. “I’ll settle for you going a little weak in the knees.”
CHAPTER THREE
Opportunity doesn’t knock so much as bowl into the bookshop. Before Freya can even finish scanning the second book in Skye’s pile, a tall and willowy guy with panicked eyes—and a tall iced coffee in his hand that sloshes dangerously at the rim—beelines straight for the register.
He’s not quite a regular; she’s seen him here only a handful of times, usually with aviators perched high and an Oakland baseball cap slung low over his face. Today he’s dressed a bit smarter in chinos and a zip-up gray hoodie with just the barest hint of his rust-colored V-neck peeking out.
He’s always felt familiar, but with so little of his face visible, name recognition had always evaded her. Today is the first time Freya truly recognizes him: the actor Taft Bamber. Well, shit.
The temperature increases ten degrees, and Freya almost chokes on her own spit. Her mind slingshots her back to sneaking into exclusive clubs, getting reservations with just a flash of her (Mandi’s) smile in Rouge Dior 999, and the tiny opal earrings currently sitting on her dresser, ones she couldn’t refuse in time before the box was pressed into her hands at a local boutique.
Dread drenches her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, pooling in her mouth with the acrid tang of shame. As he approaches, paranoia becomes her new best friend. The day is already terrible. Of course this would happen.
“Hi, I’m here for a book,” Taft says without preamble.
She’s sure her eyes widen a fraction, but she swiftly schools her expression. That is so not what Freya thought he’d lead with. She was already rehearsing her speech, wondering if she was half as good an actress as his girlfriend, would she be able to sweet-talk him into not giving her away?
He’s regarding her with frank, assessing eyes, but nothing about his demeanor hints that he’s here to bust her.
“Feel free to browse.” Freya tilts her head in Skye’s direction, still holding her breath. “I’m with a customer.”
He blinks like he isn’t sure he heard her right. “I can’t wait. I need it now.”
“Yeah, well,” she snaps. “This is a bookshop, not stream-on-demand. You’ll have to wait your turn.” She thumps down the book she’s holding and reaches for the third, pointedly ignoring him.
This is the weirdest fight-or-flight response she’s ever had. She knows she should probably be nicer to him. Hell, it’ll still be a miracle if he doesn’t eventually catch on to the resemblance, and baiting him further won’t help her cause. But after the morning she’s had, she’s fresh out of patience.