The Decoy Girlfriend(70)

Before Taft can sink too into the feeling, Freya yelps, “We won’t make it all the way to the car like this!”

She’s right, his arms are straining, but it’s worth it to carry her bridal style. It’s also given them enough of a head start to lose Kurt, but not for long. They’re not close enough to the theater to double back, and still too far from the car, so that leaves them with just one option.

The time-honored tradition of a hot-and-heavy pretend make-out.

He ducks into an alley behind a seedy bar. Farther ahead there are a few people idling around trash cans, cigarette butts glowing orange in the dim light.

Freya squirms in his arms. “We’re stopping?”

Taft glances down at her and throws away every reason why, even if it’s only make-believe, this is a bad idea. He sets her down, heart thumping when he hears her soft gasp as her shoulders meet the rough brick wall behind her. “You okay?”

The alarm hasn’t left her face, but her mouth twitches into a smile. “Has this move ever worked?”

He opens his mouth.

“In real life,” she adds quickly.

He has no idea. Probably. Definitely. “Mmm,” he hums, noncommittal.

Freya’s eyes are dead set on him. She’s so close he can count every single black eyelash. Long and lush, they graze her skin as she shuts her eyes as he dips his face into her neck. God, she smells incredible. Like the comforting warmth of fresh ink on old paper and the tingling sweetness of summer mint from his herb garden.

Taft settles his hands, only slightly trembling, on her waist loosely. His hip bones brush hers. To any outside observer, they’re just two lovers unable to keep their hands off each other.

Freya’s arms reach up to clasp behind his neck, eliciting a growl deep in the back of his throat. Her slightest touch and he’s a goner. She must have come to the same conclusion, because in unison her thumbs start to leisurely scratch his nape. Involuntarily, he tenses, hips bucking into hers. It’s been so long since someone has touched him like that.

She makes a sound that could have been a giggle, and suddenly all he wants to do is look at her.

Dressed as they are in their premiere finery, Taft knows this is the last place Kurt will think to look, but just in case, he keeps his head bent, obscuring his face, and inhales her scent, anchoring himself to this moment. A memory he knows he will revisit in the future, like the way Freya flips the pages of her favorite books.

“This is just like something out of a movie,” she whispers, breath tickling the curve of his ear. Her arms tighten around Taft, bringing him closer until their bodies are flush. “Can’t lie, it’s exciting.”

Taft’s smiling lips hover above the crook of her neck, feeling the warmth rising from her skin. He wants to close the gap, press open-mouthed kisses as far down as she’ll let him. “You’re adorable.”

Freya tilts her head as if in invitation, giving him better access. “Just adorable?”

Awkwardness lances through him, turning him all of sixteen again. “Uhhh . . .”

Freya’s gaze flicks from his eyes to his lips, fastens there for lingering seconds, leaving no doubt as to what she wants.

There are a thousand adjectives on the tip of Taft’s tongue to describe her, so he’s kicking himself that the one that actually came out of his mouth was “adorable.” Hen wearing a party hat is adorable. Photos of his nieces and nephews dressed in football onesies on game day are adorable.

Freya is . . . his.

Possessive want flares in his belly. He blinks. That wasn’t the word he intended, but he can’t take it back or say it out loud because he has no business wanting her as much as he does.

“Loyal,” Taft says, drawing back to look at her as he says it. “Beautiful. Driven. Courageous. So goddamn sexy. Even when you wake up cranky before coffee and your hair is a mess, sticking up all over the place with the previous night’s hair spray. Maybe especially then.”

Freya claps her hand over her mouth to contain her giggle, dropping it to mouth Sorry for the interruption.

“I’ve never known anybody like you.”

“LA is full of girls like me,” says Freya. She seems almost embarrassed. “Everywhere on this planet is full of lost girls struggling to be adults and figuring their shit out, struggling to move on . . . I’m not special.”

Unacceptable. The wrongness of this woman thinking she’s a dime a dozen needs to be rectified immediately. If she talked herself up as much as she talked herself down, Taft is convinced there is nothing she couldn’t do.

“You endure, Freya,” he says softly. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

Her red lips part and her tongue wets the inner seam of her mouth like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. She has a terrible habit of accidentally eating Dior lipstick, Taft notices fondly.

“But I’ve caused you so much trouble,” she whispers.

“Are you kidding me?” He gives her an incredulous look. “Sweetheart, the trouble was the best part.”

Her smile is sweet and tentative, but she doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Either she’s savoring his declaration or she’s mentally writing the line down to reuse in her book later.

Freya bites her lip. “I like when you call me sweetheart.”