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Summary
Beatrice is busy looking at the way the peaks of Brian’s cheeks are pinked, the flick of Katya’s tongue over her bottom lip.
Both of them look back at her with the same moony grin, and it twists up her insides more than the two glasses of wine she’s had should allow. Across the room from her Trixie is uncharacteristically silent, watching the two Katyas, watching Beatrice. He clears his throat and locks eyes with her. She knows.
