Page 63 of The Right Garza
Me:Tell me where, so I know how to dress.
Trent:Doesn’t matter. Never seen you look anything less than hot as fuck, so do you.
Me: Flattering. But still not helpful.
Trent: Burlap
Ugh. So damn frustrating.
“Going out?” Maggie asks when I jump up from the couch and dart for the stairs.
“Yup. But you can’t come this time, sorry.”
She guffaws at me. “Well, of course not.”
~
I want sextonight, so I dress for it.
It’s been a while for me. Awhile. And, shocker of all shockers, Trenton Garza is the one I want to break that dry spell with.
In a short, flirty, mauve dress that shows far too much skin and accentuates my boobs with a deep cleavage cut, I’m damn near begging for it.Easy access.
Trent arrives exactly two hours later. He comes to collect me from the apartment this time, and even opens the car door for me. So chivalrous all of a sudden.
His face is shadowed with the ghost of a beard tonight, but I like it. He would wet panties if he ever grew a full beard. Although he always looks and smells amazing, tonight everything feels heightened, amplified. Probably because I’mnoticingnow, paying attention to what I didn’t before.
“What’s in the bag?” he asks of the small duffel I dump onto the back seat.
“Overnight stuff.” Isn’t it obvious? “I’m sleeping at your place tonight.”
“Says who?”
This asshole. I’m convinced he exists to drive me mad. I don’t answer. Makes no sense wasting time arguing over something thatisgoing to happen.
As he drives out, I ask, “So, where are we going?”
“Dinner and comedy.”
“Comedy?” I ask on a choked laugh. “You? Trent Garza doesn’t ‘laugh’.”
“I laugh if I find something funny. Which is how laughter works, right?”
“So, basically you findno onefunny, then.”
“Youused to make me laugh,” he says.
“You used to laughatme, not with me,” I remind him. “Like when I walked into the sliding door because Monica had just cleaned it and it looked like it was open. Or when I failed my driving test before I even left the parking lot. Or when you and True tricked me with a fake foam cake covered in real icing.”
“See? I find something hilarious, I laugh.” And then he laughs.
“You’re a jerk,” I mumble.
“And you’re fucking gorgeous.”
Dinner andcomedy are at an underground speakeasy on someone’s mansion property.
We enter through a vaulted door, and it’s one of the classiest speakeasies I’ve ever been to. Red, velveted booth seats, mini chandeliers twinkling from the ceiling, crystal glassware, dim lighting, and an all-male staff serving in tuxedos.
