Page 31 of Black Jack (Advantage Play 5)

“And why’s that? Because I’m Italian?”

I nod. “That and your affinity for all things red.”

Her mouth tilts up on one side. “Touché. I do have a thing for red wine.”

“Just not red roses.”

“Just not red roses,” she confirms with an unapologetic grin.

I laugh and continue my prodding. “So, if you’re a red wine kind of woman, why order vodka on the rocks?”

“No reason.”

“I call bullshit,” I return.

“Oh, you do?”

“Yeah.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you looked at the drink menu. No one does that for vodka on the rocks. Why skip to the hard liquor when you’re craving wine?”

As if she’s tasted something sour, her lips purse, and she studies me from across the table.

“Tell me,” I press, resting my elbows on the table as intrigue churns in my gut. This girl is fascinating. Frustrating. But fascinating, all the same.

“I save red wine for special occasions,” she reveals after a few seconds.

“Why?”

“Because I’d prefer to not spend the rest of my life on a treadmill.”

My brows furrow. “Wait…you didn’t order red wine because it has too many calories?”

She can’t be serious. Honestly, she could probably gain twenty pounds and still make the cut as a Victoria’s Secret model. And even if she gained another hundred after that, I’d still find her mesmerizing. There’s just…something about her.

“Do you know how many calories are in a common glass of red wine, Jacky Boy?” she asks.

“How many?”

“125.”

“So?”

“So, for someone my height and weight, that’s approximately sixteen more minutes on the treadmill. If I gave in to every guilty pleasure––as you like to call them––I’d be living at the gym, and I don’t have that much time in the day.”

Her passion is sexy as hell, but the reasoning behind it depresses me. There’s a difference between being fit and refusing to enjoy life because you’re terrified of what you’d look like in a swimsuit if you let yourself enjoy a freaking glass of wine every once in a while.

The waitress returns with my beer and Bianca’s tumbler of vodka and ice. As she sets them onto the dark lacquered table, I tell her, “Thank you. Could we also have two glasses of your finest red wine?”

“Of course,” the waitress replies at the same time Bianca interrupts, “That won’t be necessary.”

The waitress’s gaze turns back to me, and I nod in return. “Yes. It’s very necessary. Thank you.”

“Of course,” she repeats, ignoring Bianca’s protest as she weaves her way to the bar at the back of the restaurant.

I can feel Bianca’s wrath from across the table, but I don’t cower.

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