The Decoy Girlfriend(62)
Next, she’s arrested by a spiral-bound navy notebook with celestial bodies and the constellation she was born under, a dove-gray vegan leather journal, and a floral hardbound one with a pretty silk ribbon.
“I’ve never seen you use one, so I didn’t know what you’d like,” he confesses. “But I was worried you’d lose the notes you leave on all your little scraps of paper.”
No one has bought her a notebook since her mom. Freya blinks back tears.
“Um, but just in case you don’t want to get them messy . . .” Taft clears his throat as though he’s a little uncomfortable. “Open the drawer.”
She does. Inside she finds a neat collection of a week’s worth of envelopes that he hasn’t thrown away.
This time, she does let the tears fall. Struck speechless, all she can do is stare at him. A small smile curls the corners of his mouth as he scratches the back of his neck before shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, a bashful gesture that takes her breath away, too.
“You did this for me?” she says hoarsely, and of course he did, what a silly question, but he nods seriously.
“Do you like it?”
Incredulous, she repeats, “Do I like it? Taft, I . . . this is . . . I’ve never had my own office before.” She swivels the mauve velvet chair, the back shaped like a shell. She scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip before saying, “No guy has ever done something this thoughtful for me before.”
“I wanted you to have a place here that was all yours. Somewhere to work in peace without . . . distractions.”
She glances up at him from underneath her eyelashes. “Distractions aren’t so bad.”
He laughs. “Let’s see if you’re still saying that the next time Hen’s a space hog.”
“He’s sweet. I wasn’t sure how living with him would go at first, but, uh, he knows just what I like.”
Taft’s eyes fly to hers, searching for something. Whatever he finds there, the smile he offers her next is new, one of a man who’s laid all his cards on the table—or in his case, the desk. The faint parentheses around his mouth are a testament to how much and often he smiles, but this one shows her everything: vulnerability, yearning, and, above all, a desire to make her happy.
“The typewriter isn’t new,” he says when she runs her fingers over the keys. “It was my grandfather’s. He used to be a writer, and when he passed away, this was one of the keepsakes I wanted to remember him. It’s been boxed away for years, but, uh, I think he’d love that someone was using it again.” His smile is wry. “Good luck deleting huge paragraphs on this.”
“Taft, thank you.” Freya bites her lip, touching the keys with even more reverence. “It’s perfect. But it’s too much.”
Taft isn’t her best friend or her aunt, and yet he valued her writing enough to give her an office to do it in. A typewriter to prevent her from moving backward. A reminder of his faith in her on a Post-it to keep her moving forward. All she can think is how he’s the most comforting thing she’s had in a long time.
He didn’t just make place for her in his home, he made it a home for her.
“It’s not too much, it’s just a few small things,” he starts to say, but she stops him by stepping into his space and putting her arms around him in a gentle hug.
She’s breaking the rules, but she knows he doesn’t care when he hugs her back. The longing in his eyes is second only to the thrum of his body, as though being this close to her will unravel him. He holds her like she’s something precious, something he doesn’t want to mess up.
“Thank you,” Freya murmurs against his shoulder. “This is . . . everything.”
“I told you,” he says. “When the people I . . . care about want something, I will do everything in my power to help them get it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
If Freya had thought the fancy New York City theaters were impressive, they have nothing on the downtown LA theater that Bowen Brennan rented for a private screening of her new film and directorial debut.
Buttery yellow light floods from the ceiling, giving the invitees a gilt-edged glow. Local craft beer and cocktails are being served out in the lobby, so hardly anyone is already seated.
“Do we need to go mingle with your old castmates?” Freya asks as they help themselves to crustless shrimp-and-watercress petit four sandwiches. Why something this delicious must be so miniscule aggrieves her.
“They don’t really know Mandi well,” Taft whispers in her ear, voice slightly strained. “We’re fine.”
It isn’t the first time she’s gotten the impression that he doesn’t quite fit in with these people he calls his friends. After seeing Bowen’s Instagram comment about Taft, it’s clear to Freya that there just doesn’t seem to be a lot of affection between them. He keeps updated on their lives, but they don’t take the same effort with him. The imbalance doesn’t seem noticeable to anyone but him—and now her.
“If they’re pretty much strangers, then I don’t have to worry about getting anything wrong,” she points out logically. “And since I owe Mandi an update call tomorrow, anyway, she’ll be filled in.”
His shrug, elegant in his smoky charcoal tuxedo, is noncommittal as he pops in another not-so-satisfying swallow of sandwich. “The night is young.”