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“Do I make you nervous?” she asks, although her tone of voice tells Trinity she already knows the answer. She reaches across the bar and wraps a hand loosely around the base of Trinity’s beer, thumb coming up to pick demurely at the peeling label of it.
“No,” she lies. Her heartbeat thuds furiously against her chest, and, maddeningly, between her legs.
A condescending smile parts Garcia’s lips. “Are you sure about that?” she asks. “You’re looking a little warm, Santos.”
or:
three nights between santos and garcia, across the span of 10 months
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