Page 22 of The Billionaire Player

“It’s a twist on the Americano. Legend has it there was an Italian playboy by the name of Count Camillo Negroni who invented the drink. He was a bit of a regular at a bar and asked his usual bartender to pep the Americano, his usual drink, up a bit. The bartender added a shot of gin instead of soda water and the orange garnish instead of a lemon.”

“Aren’t you just an encyclopedia of knowledge,” she said as she lifted the drink and eyed it suspectedly.

“Cheers,” I said and looked her in the eye as our glasses touched.

She held my gaze almost in a challenge and one I was more than happy to accept. I kept my eyes on her as she lifted the glass to her lips and took a small sip. She tilted her head to the side as she took in the taste and then smiled as she brought the glass back down.

“I take it, you approve?” I asked.

“It’s nice, sweet. I do like it.”

“I’m glad. I would hate to think I gave you a subpar drink.”

“Something tells me that you don’t do anything subpar,” she countered.

“Why, Ms. Ricci, are you complimenting me?” I asked with a look of shock on my face.

“Am I? Is it a compliment if I’m stating a fact or an observation?” she asked and took another drink.

“That’s important to you, isn’t it?”

I leaned back onto the barback and took her in. She looked like she belonged there, that she was at home sitting with a drink in her hand, passing the time with simple conversation. I could easily see her in Italy or France at some sidewalk cafe talking to the locals, becoming one of them, and being a damn good reporter in the process.

It still amazed me how easy it was to talk to her, to want to tell her things. She had a way about her that made me instantly comfortable with her. The attraction between us continued to rage out of control. I could tell she felt it too and I appreciated that she didn’t try to hide it. It was evident in how she looked at me, how her eyes scanned my body, and how she sat with her body turned towards me.

She was intrigued by me; I could see that too. She wanted to know exactly why I asked her to my restaurant after we had closed. She wanted to know what I wanted and I could tell she wasn’t sure if it was strictly professional as I said. I got the impression she was even more confused about which one she wanted. She might be good at reading people, at getting them to talk, but I was just as good, or at least I wanted to be with her.

“What is important?” she asked.

“The truth, being honest.”

“Isn’t it to everyone?”

“If only,” I said with a laugh.

“There’s a story there, I can tell,” she said.

“Isn’t there always. What’s your story? Why journalism, why not stay in the restaurant business?”

“I thought we were talking about you,” she countered and looked at her drink.

“Now we’re talking about you. This is a conversation, not an interrogation. We’re just two friendly people sharing a drink,” I said and took another drink.

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

“I would like us to be. Do you not?” I asked, challenging her.

“Are you a man who has a lot of female friends?”

“Again, you’re avoiding my question.”

“As are you.”

“Answer mine and I’ll answer yours,” I said.

“I have no idea what we are. The first time we met, I thought we were getting along well. Then you found out I was a reporter and you practically threw me out of your restaurant. It only made me wonder why or what happened for you to be so distrustful of reporters.”

“Maybe I just didn’t like you,” I interjected.

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