The Decoy Girlfriend(61)
She arches an eyebrow.
Taft throws his hands up, flashing his palms in a silent mea culpa. “Okay, I know it’s risky. I just . . . I really wanted to see you. And maybe pick up a book?”
It’s a remarkably weak excuse, and he could kick himself for not being better at improv. They do live together—she hasn’t been gone long enough for him to miss her. And yet. He swallows and tries not to think about whether Freya finds his following her to a totally different neighborhood romantic or . . . cringey.
Thankfully, Freya nods like it makes complete sense. “What did you think of Steph’s? I never saw you read it around the house.” When he just looks at her blankly, she adds, “You know? The first time we met? You reserved her book.”
“Oh.” He scratches the back of his neck. He reads, and he reads a lot, but it’s mostly memoirs and lush, sweeping women-and queer-authored fantasies. “I actually didn’t buy it for me.”
“Right, the gift wrap . . . I guess it was a present for someone else?” She buries her face back in her laptop, flush crawling up her neck and tingeing her cheeks a lovely rose. “Sorry, you don’t have to tell me.”
Surely, he’s imagining the tone of jealousy?
Freya’s tapping away too hard and too fast to actually be forming any intelligible words. He’s heard her in the every-finger-flying-over-the-keyboard-at-the-same-time throes of inspiration and he’s heard her when the only click-clacks come from repetitive use of the Delete key—this is neither.
Freya, he realizes with pleased surprise, might actually be as possessive as he is. No one’s ever reciprocated before, not really, and damn if it doesn’t feel like a thundering, elated ovation in his chest.
She doesn’t get that she’s the only woman he wants to give presents to.
“The book was for my mom,” he says. “I tell her I get gift cards I don’t need to bookshops, or anywhere really, because it’s the only way I can get her to accept anything that isn’t a birthday, Christmas, or Mother’s Day present.”
“So you gift wrap books you think your mom will enjoy just because?”
She really isn’t letting this go, Taft realizes. He’s going to have to give her something. And the first thing that comes to mind—the first thing that spills off his traitorous tongue—is, “The gift wrap was for me.”
Freya’s head jerks up.
“It got me a few extra minutes with you.”
And it was worth it. He’d do it again.
Taft is out the door before she can say a word.
* * *
—
Freya’s unable to stop thinking about the last words Taft said before he left the bookshop. Her shift isn’t long, but it draaaaags until she’s home again.
Hen greets her at the door with an enthusiastic woof and a cold nose. In the background she can hear the faint pop and sizzle of cooking. Whatever Taft’s making smells good, but she can’t let herself get distracted. Between the distance, then the kiss at the photo shoot, and now this middle ground they’ve developed, Freya’s been unable to suss out how Taft truly feels. But today felt important.
It’s a small but significant reveal: he liked her from the beginning. Even before he knew who Freya was, when he had to keep up the pretense of dating Mandi, Taft had tried to prolong their interaction.
Ava had it right, Freya thinks as she slips off her shoes. His guard is up because he’s trying to protect himself. She only wishes she knew what it would take for him to see he doesn’t need to protect himself from her.
“I picked up those sourdough rolls from the bakery that you asked for!” she calls out as she enters the kitchen.
Taft gives her a quick smile and sets down the knife he’s using to trim the broccolini, stretching out a hand for the bag. Their fingers graze, shooting a spark of awareness through Freya that quickly turns to a surge of heat. For a split second, they both freeze.
With a flustered laugh, Freya steps away. “What smells so good?”
He makes a small humming sound. “Chicken marsala. I just finished frying the breasts and sautéing the mushrooms. You’re probably smelling the marsala wine and chicken stock for the sauce.”
She spots the red-skin potatoes on the cutting board. “Need any help?” They both like their mashed potatoes with the skin on, topped with a generous amount of cheese and salty crumbled bacon.
“I’d love that. But would you mind stepping into the spare room with me for a minute?”
“Did you finally get yourself a bed in there? Because you know I hate that you’ve been kicked out of your own room and relegated to the couch,” she says, following him.
“I did buy some furniture, but . . . Well, you’ll see. Go ahead and open the door.”
Forehead scrunched with confusion, Freya obliges.
The first thing she sees is the desk.
To be fair, it’s impossible to miss, massive and gleaming a rich walnut, surrounded by all the writerly things she could ever possibly want or need.
Her trusty laptop, Hunka Junk, sits next to a vintage black typewriter. Underneath a modern gooseneck lamp crouch a couple of succulents in cute pots—at this distance, she can’t tell if they’re real or fake. The “F” black-and-white Tiled Margot Monogram Mug from Anthropologie stuffed with an assortment of rainbow-colored gel pens. An unopened pack of sticky tabs and two stacks of bright Post-it notes, small and large. When she takes a step closer, she sees Taft’s handwriting on one: I believe in you.