The Decoy Girlfriend(82)
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The next day, as Freya and Taft stand on the sidewalk in front of a French-inspired cake shop in Los Feliz, a bemused Freya crosses her arms across her chest. “I think I might be a little underdressed.”
In truth, she doesn’t mind that she’s wearing one of the most casual outfits from Mandi’s wardrobe, a white halter crop top and wide-legged flowy pin-striped trousers. But the other couple who just entered the storybook patisserie wore clothing so elegant that they might have just walked off a runway.
Taft, on the other hand, is completely unbothered in his fitted black tee and oatmeal-colored chinos. “They have the best cake, I swear. Connor”—for a second he bites his lip, seeming abashed to mention his former friend’s name—“and Holly ordered their wedding cake from here, but this place does an incredible high tea—sweet only, no savory. I thought it would be fun to try someplace I’ve never been before.”
Freya can’t help her smile. “Yeah, but . . . high tea?”
“What can I say, I’m an old-fashioned dude,” he deadpans. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. You deserve it.”
“We deserve it,” she corrects, swallowing the offhand quip about them being a power couple, because Oh wow, presumptuous much, Freya?
They’re here to celebrate her completing the manuscript and Taft getting an offer for an indie movie. Last night, before she even realized it, she reached the end of her novel. A sense of peace and held-back excitement rushed through her, unmatched only until this morning, when Taft heard back about the indie project he auditioned for. He got the part, obviously.
If it was just her, she would have made a Funfetti cake and thrown in extra sprinkles, but Taft loves celebrating everything, especially when it comes to her.
As if to prove his point, he holds out his phone. Tiers of Joy has over eight hundred thousand followers on Instagram. Their grid is full of decadent cakes with work-of-art frosting that it would physically pain Freya to cut into.
“I’m determined to expand your palate,” says Taft. “I mean, how can you say no to this face?”
Freya steps through the door he holds open for her with a good-natured roll of her eyes. Hand in hand, they cross the black-and-cream bistro-tile floor to be seated by the elegant hostess.
“Hello, my name is Bea, and I’ll be taking care of you today,” she says, smiling wide as she looks between Taft and Freya. “Is this a special occasion, Mr. Bamber?”
He glances at Freya a bit bashfully before nodding. “Yes, we’re celebrating.”
“Congratulations!” Bea enthuses as she seats them at an intimate table for two. The backs of the formal white chairs are bow tied with pale pink fabric that matches the linen. She waits until Taft pulls Freya’s chair out for her before she says, “We have a set dessert menu, but can I get you started with tea?”
“Darjeeling, please,” says Taft.
Bea looks expectantly at Freya.
“I’ll have . . .” Freya suspects asking for coffee is a no-no. “The same?”
When Bea bustles away with their order, Freya gets her first real look at her surroundings. Sparkling chandeliers drip from the coffered ceiling, glinting off the antique mirrors framing the chinoiserie-wallpapered walls.
“You know,” she says conversationally, only a teensy bit serious, “if this is how I’m rewarded for every book I finish, I’m going to be a lot more productive.”
Taft presses his fingertips together under his chin and smirks. “Then my evil plan is working.”
“It’s not evil if it helps me,” she protests.
“It is if I have ulterior motives.” His smirk sweetens into a smile. “I get to take you out and spend the whole afternoon with you.”
Quickly, Freya sees what he means. When their pastries are wheeled over with a cheery “Bon appétit!” it’s obvious that it’ll take them the better part of the day to make their way through the small mountain.
“So that’s why it’s called ‘Tiers of Joy,’?” she says, ogling the pretty three-tier stand laden with a month’s worth of sugar content.
“All their cakes are three tiers, too,” says Taft, pouring a cup of tea for Freya from the small white teapot. He winks. “Everything and everyone in LA has a brand.”
She wraps her hands around her cup, inhaling the fragrant spiral of steam while she considers the bite-size pastries. Among the many delicacies are lavender macarons, perfect and round and probably every bit as airy as they look; strawberry mini cupcakes topped with pink champagne buttercream as tall as the cake itself; something that smells like lemon-curd cake squares sprinkled with edible violets.
Freya’s halfway to reaching for a cupcake when she stops, realizing there’s only one of each dainty delight. It’s obviously meant for a couple to share. Before she can feel embarrassed, Taft picks up the cupcake and neatly slices it in half, giving her first choice.
“To your indie movie offer,” she says.
“To you finishing your book,” he counters.
She smiles around a bite, flavor bursting on her tongue. “And to hopefully getting my career back on track.”
Taft’s eyes drink her in as deeply as the cup of Darjeeling in his hands. “To having someone to share my life with,” he murmurs. “When . . . when the movie premieres and the contract is officially over, I’ll be free to pursue what I want. Everything I want.”