The Decoy Girlfriend(8)
Skye’s gaze volleys between them like she’s watching a tennis match.
Freya leans in, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Maybe I’m not even sure you can read.”
It doesn’t put him off. If anything, his eyes have the temerity to blaze—like he’s having fun!—as he gears up for another serve.
“No drinks allowed,” she declares swiftly before he gets a chance to respond, pointing to his iced coffee. “You look like a person who spills.”
He brings the drink to his mouth, smiling around the straw. “Wrong again. Once something’s in my hands, I don’t let it go easily.”
She narrows her eyes and tries not to notice that his lips are shaped into a perfect Cupid’s bow, giving him the impish appearance of a naughty child about to accept an unintended challenge.
“I don’t see a sign anywhere.” He holds her gaze as he takes a sip with an unnecessarily loud slurp that she’s positive is done entirely to provoke her.
She makes up her mind to laminate several signs to hang around the bookshop just for him.
They both simultaneously open their mouths, but before Freya can beat him to the punch with a line of banter so winning she might actually write it into her book, Stori arrives in a gust of honey-lemon tea, balancing two blistering mugs and a plate of fancy cookies on a tea tray.
Taft eyes the tea. “?‘No drinks allowed,’ huh?”
Damn it. “No outside drinks,” Freya clarifies. “You can buy something at the bookgarten.”
She points to the flung-open doors leading to the back garden that Stori started landscaping in spring, transforming the unused space into an outside reading and hangout space. Trailing roses the colors of a summer sunset spread over the orange-brick back wall of the bookshop and twine enchantingly around the all-weather drinks gazebo. It looks like something from a fairy tale and is one of Freya’s favorite spots.
“I’m so glad I didn’t miss you!” Stori exclaims, shoving everything into Freya’s arms instead of on the counter, which is right there. She crouches to root around under the counter, her voice muffled as she says, “Your book is here . . . somewhere.”
Taft sends Freya a victorious grin, the parentheses on his cheeks popping.
She refuses to acknowledge it.
“If I can find it,” she mutters. “When was the last time you cleaned under here, Freya?” She glances up with a puckered forehead. “You’ve turned my counter into the equivalent of your dad’s junk drawer.”
“Stori,” Freya hisses, thunking the tray on the counter.
Now Taft knows her name and thinks she’s some kind of feral pack rat who can’t bear to throw anything away. Which, fair. But he doesn’t get to know that about her.
And he doesn’t get to know about her dad, either. That the man who used to be the most fastidiously tidy person in her entire universe now couldn’t bear to throw out the generic customer holiday greeting cards that still came addressed to Anjali Lal or her half-finished to-do list with tasks that he promised were up next, sweet pea, but that he never got around to. It’s still pinned to the fridge with the best mom in the universe magnet, filled with the bubbly half-cursive handwriting that Freya shared with her mom.
This stranger—this entitled, insufferable, handsome stranger—shouldn’t know that her dad squirrels away jagged bits of paper Mom tucked between pages because she could never find a bookmark when she needed one. Or that Freya’s still hanging on to Hunka, short for Hunka Junk, the high school MacBook Pro her mother bought her, a connection even more tangible than the book dedicated in Anjali Lal’s name.
And as she’s consumed by the memories, Freya’s rational mind points out that this stranger doesn’t actually know any of these things, but she still feels strangely protective anyway. Of Dad, of the under-counter mess that Stori admonishes, but mostly of herself.
“Here we are!” Stori surfaces triumphant, holding up the book.
She has no idea where Freya’s thoughts have spilled. What she’s inadvertently caused.
It’s not her fault. She’s probably forgotten what she said. Freya knows she should move past it, too, but even years later, it’s hard.
With a stiff, robotic arm, Freya takes the book but almost drops it on Stori’s head when she sees the yellow Post-it slapped to the cover of her friend Steph Kirkland’s book.
More to the point, the proof-positive name on it: Taft Bamber.
He lofts exactly one eyebrow, simultaneously smirking. It’s the move that immortalized him in about a thousand GIFs, some of which she’s even used.
Oh no. Her stomach loop-the-loops. How mortifying.
Stori puts an arm around Freya’s shoulder, squeezing her to her hip, which is kind of a feat while Freya’s bagging up Skye’s books.
“Oh, not that one, dear,” Skye says as Freya reaches a young adult novel. “It’s for my niece. Could I get this gift wrapped?”
Freya wriggles free of Stori’s embrace and brings out all the wrapping paper. “You took my recommendation! Trust me, your niece will love it. Pick whichever pattern you want.”
The author is Mimi Díaz, who has relentlessly amazing covers and multiple six-figure deals. She’s more established in her career than Freya and Steph and the rest of their cohort, and has perpetual looming deadlines, but she’s always the first of their friend and critique group to reserve her flight whenever there’s a book birthday, and she always springs for celebration Mo?t. Freya makes a point to recommend her books to all her favorite customers.