The Decoy Girlfriend(78)
“And who would I be in this scenario? Freya, regular girl, or—”
“You’re the one that I want, Freya,” he interrupts. “Be you.”
She’s always liked how he says her name. The syllables sound like a secret rolling off his tongue, and it’s one she wants him to tell her over and over again, because she’ll never tire of the cadence of his voice. And now, the way he says it makes it sound like he’s choosing her. Risking something for her.
She slides her feet to the floor, heart thumping erratically. “Are you serious?”
He can’t be. There’s no way. If they’re caught, all their careers are in jeopardy.
“I’m positive. I wouldn’t put you at risk, I know how hard you’ve worked to get your writing back on track.”
“That’s sweet, but it’s not me I’m worried about,” she says, hearing her frustration. “You know we can’t go out in public together with me looking like myself. It would blow up in our faces, and I don’t want to be a liability to you and Mandi again. I promised myself I wouldn’t. I’d love a real date . . . but I refuse to be selfish with you.”
Especially as he’s showing a shocking lack of self-preservation right now, she doesn’t add.
Taft’s face is indecipherable. “I don’t want to compromise anymore.”
Connor and the rest of the Once Bitten group comes to Freya’s mind. “Good. You shouldn’t have to.”
“That includes you. What you said at the bookshop, you were right. You and me, this is real. I don’t want to pretend like we’re not happening. I can’t. I want to know everything about you, Freya, but I don’t need the ten-secrets game to do it. I don’t need to know your secrets to know that I already like you.”
This is everything she ever wanted him to say.
“I’m not going to let anyone else’s idea of my career stop me from spending time with you,” says Taft. “Or being with you, or building something real as soon as we can. The only person who gets to dictate my destiny is me.”
Freya’s heart flies into her throat. This coming from a guy who once let his entire life be mapped out for him, who thought compromising who he was and what he wanted was the only way he would get ahead. His speech throws all that noise out the proverbial window.
“You’re making it really hard for a girl to stand her ground,” she whispers.
“That’s because I want to sweep you off your feet,” he says. Before Freya knows what’s happening, he’s scooped her up behind the legs and pulled her against his chest.
Freya tips her head back to eye him. “That’s not a line from one of your shows, is it?”
He dimples boyishly. “I’ll have you know that was a Taft Bamber original. Only the best for you.” He makes Freya’s mind up for her when his nose nuzzles into the ticklish place behind her ear. “Come on, let me show you all my haunts. Be a tourist with me, baby.”
* * *
—
Taft’s idea of the best includes bringing her to two of his favorite places in the city: Griffith Park and its iconic observatory overlooking downtown LA and Hollywood, and the indie bookshop Skylight Books.
“A bookshop, Taft? Really?” Freya tips her head back, getting a close-up of his grin as he slings an arm around her shoulder. She pushes her sunglasses higher on her nose. “You do remember where I work?”
They’re both trying not to stand out: she’s wearing the emerald-green blouse from their almost-kiss at Books & Brambles, thrown her hair into a messy ponytail, and stuck with light day makeup instead of Mandi’s full face of products. Taft’s casual in an unassuming baseball cap and aviators.
They’re standing on a shaded bit of sidewalk next to the Los Feliz 3 movie theater, in front of spotless windows boasting dozens of summer’s latest releases and big-name authors’ books face out to entice buyers inside. All four of her friends’ books are prominently placed, Steph’s and Ava’s next to each other like the best friends they are.
“It’s not just any bookshop. It’s a beloved Los Feliz cornerstone. Before Books and Brambles stole my heart, this is where I always came,” Taft explains, holding the door open for her. “You’ll love it.”
“It’s the place where books literally live, so that’s a given,” she teases, humoring him because he’s being all cute and earnest, and no self-respecting writer would ever turn down a date at a bookshop.
Inside, she’s welcomed home. The crisp smell of pages and familiar covers greet her. It gives her a euphoric rush that rivals the one the view from the observatory gave her. Despite both places’ reminder of her own sense of cosmic smallness, she also feels a connection that she hasn’t felt before. Not just to this city or her work, but to the man next to her, who, somehow, always gives her what she needs.
“Is that an actual tree?” Freya asks, staring at the ficus growing from the center of the store and disappearing through a skylight in the wood-domed ceiling. Its branches drape over multiple sections of the bookshop. “That is . . . epic.”
Taft grins at the astonishment and awe in her voice. He wants her to love it here, Freya realizes.
“You know,” Taft says, all casual, “I run into Chris Pine here occasionally.”