Black Jack (Advantage Play #5) - Kelsie Rae Page 0,22

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.

With her arms crossed, and a glare firmly in place, she seethes, “I said I wanted vodka on the rocks.”

“And you got vodka on the rocks.” I point to the glass tumbler in front of her. “You also said that you save red wine for special occasions.”

“And?”

“And today is a special occasion, don’t you think?”

“What makes it so special, Jack?”

“It’s our first date,” I reply with a grin before raising my drink in the air. Grudgingly, she joins me with hers, and I clink them together. “To the first of many.”

Her catlike eyes narrow. Then she brings the glass to her lips and takes a small sip.

“And here we are,” the waitress announces, setting down two glasses of wine in front of us. “Are you ready to order?”

“Lobster with lemon and asparagus on the side,” Bianca tells her.

“I’ll have the same,” I add.

The waitress jots our orders down, then leaves again.

When she’s gone, Bianca quips, “No butter?”

“Nah. If a glass of wine is 125 calories, I can only imagine how many are in the little cup of melted butter that they give you with lobster.”

“I thought you didn’t care about those kinds of things.”

“Balance, Bianca. It’s all about balance. Besides, if my wife is going to look like this”––I motion to the goddess across from me––“then I’m going to have to learn how to keep up. Wouldn’t want you dissatisfied with your husband’s appearance, right?”

Again, she scans me up and down. I’m sure she’s taking in every flaw. Every misplaced hair on my head. It probably drives her nuts that she’s stuck with my sorry ass who’s used to T-shirts and a pair of Nikes instead of an Armani suit and loafers.

“Mmhmm,” she hums, coming to some sort of conclusion, though I have no idea what it is. Then she reaches for the goblet holding the wine that matches her lips and takes a sip of it.

A soft sigh slips out of her, and it makes me smile.

“And?” I press. “How is it?”

“Very good. Thank you,” she adds after her assessment.

“You’re welcome. I’m not much of a wine drinker, but you’ve convinced me to give it another try.”

I follow suit and take a sip before nodding my agreement. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” She laughs.

“I mean, it’s still wine.”

“And you’re still a Fed no matter how well you clean up,” she quips.

I look down at my white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to my elbows. It’s a style I didn’t wear until I stayed at the Dark King’s estate while the rest of