The Decoy Girlfriend(69)
That you’re a prime asshole, yes. A million times, yes.
“I do,” Taft says in a neutral voice. “I get it.”
Some of Connor’s tense energy zaps away. “I knew you would,” he says in a hearty voice, reaching out as if to clap him on the shoulder.
Taft sidesteps. “You misunderstand me. You think because I forgive the little slights and make allowances because of our long friendship, that I don’t realize where I stand with you.”
Connor scowls. “That’s not—”
“I’m speaking.” Taft’s voice slices in a way it never has before. “I’m tired of being your third-tier friend when you’ve always been my number one.” He looks at Freya, and then, without a tremble in his voice, he says, “Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
—
Freya sticking up for him is the single hottest thing a girl has ever done for him. And that includes dirty stuff. He doesn’t need an avenging angel to fight his battles for him, but the rush of her wanting to . . .
The feeling is unsurpassed.
Striding out of the premiere arm in arm with the most beautiful woman in the room made him feel like a badass, like he was unstoppable. But now that they’re actually outside and walking in the direction of his car, he needs to apologize.
“I’m sorry, I know you were looking forward to the after-party,” says Taft. He swallows his pride. “Do you still want to—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
The ferocity in her voice makes him turn to look at her, and the scowl of indignant anger on her face almost makes him stumble. Her chest heaves as she says, “After the shitty way they treated you, screw them. Do you really think I wanted to spend the rest of the night with them?”
He’s flustered. “I didn’t ask whether you wanted to leave. You should have had the choice. It’s your first Hollywood premiere, and I kinda yanked you out of there pretty unceremoniously.”
Not exactly the behavior of a gentleman, he thinks, but Freya’s snort clearly tells him she disagrees.
“Taft,” she says, pulling him to a stop. “You’re my— You’re my friend. Of course I choose you.”
Hearing her say that, so matter of fact—like Hello, is this not obvious?—Taft is supremely glad his feet aren’t moving. He’s pretty sure he would have tripped on his own surprise.
“Oh,” is all he can manage, a sting building in the back of his throat.
“And as your friend, I am so glad we got the fuck out of there,” says Freya. Her arm is still linked through his, so with her fingers curled around his biceps, she tugs him into motion again.
They don’t get more than ten feet before someone across the street leaps out from behind a car with a camera. “Leaving already, Mandi? Another fight with lover boy? You’re making my career, sweetie!”
Instinctively, Taft uses his body to shield Freya from view. He knew there might be press outside but had hoped that by leaving early, they’d be able to slip by unnoticed. “Absolute fucking vulture,” he says under his breath.
Freya’s fingers dig into Taft’s arm as she tries to peek around him. “Oh god, he’s trying to cross over to us.”
As they hustle away, Taft glances back to see a familiar photographer indeed attempting to weave through multiple lanes of traffic. He instantly recognizes the paparazzo who’s made stealthily following Mandi his mission for years—Kurt Kane. He was the one who took the picture at the club that sent Freya and Taft viral.
“Please don’t panic,” starts Taft. “But as invasive as the paparazzi can be, this guy is one of the worst.”
Freya sucks in her cheeks. “I knew he looked familiar. Oh my god, I think he’s even followed us on our walks with Hen.”
It wouldn’t surprise Taft. He’s used to feeling eyes on him, but with a pang of sympathy, he realizes that he’d forgotten how disconcerting it must be for Freya. “Can you run in heels?”
She looks horrified. “What’s he going to do if he catches up to us?”
“Get in our faces. Block our way to the car. He filed charges against Mandi’s last boyfriend when they got in an altercation outside her apartment. Kurt’s pushy and aggressive when it comes to her,” Taft admits.
A series of loud honks erupt as traffic is forced to stop for the intrepid photographer.
“I’m never wearing heels again,” Freya says decisively. “I don’t care if she’s an inch taller, apparently from now on I need shoes I can evade stalkers in.” She scowls. “Thanks a lot, Mandi.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t mention him before,” says Taft, throwing another look over his shoulder. “Let’s go!”
He does his best to tug Freya along with him, but with Kurt gaining on them, it becomes obvious after a few feet she’s at risk of twisting her ankle. He can’t ask her to shuck off her heels, either, not on these streets.
Without breaking stride, he bends just enough to scoop her into his arms, one arm bracing her back, the other behind her knees. She gasps as she’s jostled against him, breasts bumping his chest. Taft tries not to groan; it’s the worst possible timing, but she feels so good, all soft curves and warm skin.