The Decoy Girlfriend(79)
“And you’re only telling me this now?”
She’s way too charmed by his casual name dropping to ask him anything else, like is Chris as nice as he seems or is he even nicer? (Personally, she thinks it’s the latter.) And Taft just grins, like he’s not jealous at all and finds an enthralled Freya equally charming, too.
Freya wanders the store, fingertips trailing over spines in the loving way that only a bibliophile can. Like Books & Brambles, Skylight Books is everything an indie bookshop should be: well stocked but still cozy enough not to lose its neighborhood feel.
She reads handwritten shelf talkers; pores over the sections dedicated to LA poets and staff picks; and slides her eyes up, down, and across shelves to find all the names of her author mutuals on Twitter, squeezing Taft’s arm to excitedly point out each of her friends’ books.
She hadn’t realized how good it would feel to be herself again, in a place she loves, with a man she—
Not loves, maybe. Not yet. But maybe soon.
“Don’t you want anything?” Taft asks after Freya picks up a third book, skims, and puts it back. “Grab whatever you want. My treat.”
Flustered, she drops her hand before she reaches for a fourth. “Oh, no, it’s fine, I’m just looking—”
“I have a reputation to uphold, you know. I can’t walk out of here without buying at least five books.”
When she bites her lip and doesn’t say anything, Taft takes a step closer and lowers his voice. “Freya, let me spoil you.”
“I can’t accept—”
“Sure you can. Get whatever your heart desires.”
What she really desires hits her like lightning, electrifying and all at once: all she wants is his heart.
“What about you?”
“Me?” Taft’s voice comes out hoarse. His eyes flare and he doesn’t blink. Not once. “Oh, I . . . um . . . I don’t need anything. I haven’t finished the books I already have.”
She can’t tell if he’s being intentionally oblivious or not, so she doesn’t push it. “Shhh!” she says instead. “Not so loud! The books will hear you.”
They leave Skylight Books twenty minutes later with a heavy tote full of books Taft insisted on paying for, sliding cash across the counter in one smooth motion before she can even reach for her wallet. She bets he even knows how to tip all suave, palming bills to someone like he’s the next Bond.
“Oh my god, it’s Raft! Mandi! Taft!”
Freya barely has enough time to throw on her oversize sunglasses before they’re besieged by a throng of shrieking teenage girls who just can’t believe they ran into Hollywood’s It Couple while window-shopping on Vermont Avenue. Her heart hammers as she smiles for selfies, hard enough that she’s surprised it hasn’t cartoonishly popped out of her chest.
The girls hang off Taft, who gamely puts his arms around their shoulders, only the slightest tension around his mouth. It’s an invisible little tell to everyone but Freya that he might not be as comfortable with all the casual touching as he looks.
Pushing herself aside in favor of being Mandi—forgetting Freya—has never made her feel this sick before. Because today had been one of the best days of her life, and all it had taken was a second for it to be over.
Ava was right, Freya realizes suddenly. She might be playing his decoy girlfriend, but it’s just a character. Once upon a time, being Mandi had been like having a comfort character like the ones in her fanfiction.
But now it’s just another thing she’ll have to give back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
T-A-F-T, Freya types one-handed into the search bar the next day, followed by B-A-M-B-E-R.
It’s not the first time his name has graced her browser history. Aside from her misspent teenage years trawling the Web for all his mentions, she’s kept on top of all the Raft gossip, especially after the close call with fans outside Skylight Books yesterday. Realistically, she knows that she doesn’t need to check; if anyone was actually on to them, Moira and Gareth would descend in a blink of an eye.
Balancing a plate of her dinner in one hand—spiced carrot-and-mint couscous topped with a garlicky lemon-butter salmon filet—she hits Enter.
Immediately, millions of Google hits pop up: Taft’s Instagram and Twitter, an old headshot without a hint of the silver hairs she’s so fond of, IMDb and Wikipedia pages, a handful of semi-spoilery interviews about what to expect on Banshee of the Baskervilles: The Movie, Once Bitten cast interviews, and profiles on Us and Entertainment Weekly.
She takes a moment to skim everything, desperately relieved that all the clickbait headlines about his supposed cheating have been buried deep on page three.
“Freya, you do know I have a perfectly usable kitchen table, right?”
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that if there’s a sofa to eat on instead . . .”
Taft snorts but joins her anyway. He tucks his feet underneath himself and digs into his own plate. “A less secure person might think you like this couch more than you like me,” he says.
She good-naturedly rolls her eyes. It’s blatantly untrue, even if she does love his house, and she hopes he knows it.
“Thanks for cooking,” she adds, as though he hadn’t eagerly scooped up all the cooking responsibilities since day one. She should feel guilty about that, but . . . “Your couscous is delicious.”