The Decoy Girlfriend(86)
She blushes on the last word, remembering her rather wanton behavior that morning but unable to stop herself from reliving the highlights reel. Especially when Taft grins at her like that.
“When we get home, want to help me plant my new herbs?” he asks as he pulls her and Sir Henry to the side of the street, allowing a family with four kids to bike past.
“You’re out of room on your window box.”
“Mmm. Maybe you could help me start a new one.”
“Yeah, okay. I’d . . . I’d really like that.”
“And then,” says Taft, “maybe after Mandi and I ‘break up,’ there are some other things you and I could do around the house.”
“Gotta warn you, I’m not the handiest,” Freya says with a laugh. “Unless that was a sex euphemism? In which case, I am very down to be nailed. Or hammered.” She tries to think of a third, but blanks. “Okay, that’s it, that’s all I got.”
A bemused smile ghosts across his lips. “I was thinking we’d start out in the bedroom—”
“I knew the DIY was code for sex!” she crows.
“And clean out half the drawers and closet space.”
A frown creases Freya’s forehead. “What? Why? You don’t need to. Won’t Mandi move all her stuff out of your closet? You’ll have everything to yourself again.”
“But what if your stuff moved in?”
She stumbles, almost tripping over her own feet, but Taft is there to catch her.
“God, you live in an amazing zip code, why can’t they fix these potholes,” mutters Freya.
Taft glances up and down the perfect, unblemished asphalt with nary a pothole in sight. “Too fast?”
She doesn’t want him to think that she doesn’t want to, but his offer is, well, unexpected. And she can’t quite untangle what she wants to stay. Her writer’s snarl is out in full fucking force.
“Not too fast,” she finally settles on. “I mean, we’ve already gone about everything backward, haven’t we? And it’s not like we don’t know what it’s like to live with each other. But . . .”
When he starts to look crestfallen, she grabs his chin. “Hey. No. None of that. I’m not saying no, I’m saying . . . there’s going to be a lot of eyes on us. Maybe more than there already are. Are you ready for that?”
“If you’re with me, I’m ready for anything.”
Twenty minutes of strolling later, they’re within sight of home when Taft’s phone goes off with a shrill ring. Freya makes a face at the screen when she sees Gareth FaceTiming him. “Ugh, may have spoken too soon.”
“It can’t be me he wants to speak to,” says Taft, looking worried. “He must be trying to get through to Mandi.”
“Let’s take it together,” suggests Freya.
Freya pastes on a bright smile while Taft accepts the call. “Hi, Gareth.”
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? I’ve called you three times, Mandi.” He makes a rude sound in the back of his throat. “I detest being forced to go through other people.”
Her blood pressure spikes. If Gareth is so desperate to get in touch with Mandi, it can’t be for any good reason.
“HAVE YOU SEEN IT?” he demands, not using his inside voice.
Freya’s eyes fly to Taft’s. “What are you talking about?”
Gareth’s exhale is gusty as hell. “The pictures of your loving boyfriend flirting with another girl at a bookshop. Christ, what is it with you two and books.” There’s a small pause, as though he’s double-checking. “Books and Brambles. Familiar?”
Nothing so melodramatic as the earth cracking open beneath her happens, but it feels like it.
“Mandi, are you listening to me?” Gareth’s voice grates in Freya’s ears. “This blurry picture with ‘Mystery Girl’ has gone viral. My god, the headlines are actually worse this time than the goddamn club.
“Nothing to say for yourself, Taft?” Loathing seeps from Gareth’s voice. “We need to get out ahead of this. Thank god someone caught you two looking cozy inside the patisserie. The photos should be able to bury this bullshit he caused. Why the hell you went somewhere that specialized in wedding cakes is beyond me. At least that boy can act. Almost looks like you two are actually . . .” He trails off, then laughs, like the idea that anything developing between Mandi and Taft is inconceivable.
“Gareth, can I—”
“Whoever ‘Mystery Girl’ is, I hope he let her down easy,” continues Gareth. “The last thing we need is some woman speaking to the gutter press about her ‘wild night with a Hollywood star,’?” he says with a scoff. “All because your boyfriend couldn’t keep it in his pants until the premiere. Jesus. What a fuckup.”
Freya glances at Taft.
His arms are crossed, like he’s trying to make himself smaller, defensive. His jaw tenses when he catches her looking at him, and his mouth forms an expression that could sort of be mistaken for a smile, but it’s more of a grimace.
“Gareth, I need to call you back,” Freya says bluntly. She can’t listen to him for another second.
She hangs up on his sputters and returns Taft’s phone. Suddenly she feels exposed, like photographers could corner them. Like Kurt Kane could pounce any second.