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“Thirteen is a hard age to lose a parent,” Gia says softly.
“Anyway.” I clear my throat. “It’s not something I talk about much. How about if you tell me the story behind that shirt you’re wearing?”
“Oh.” Gia looks down and laughs. “So last night, I was able to get in on a private game in a suite at the MGM. I was on my way to sit down at the table and a guy spilled his beer on me. It was everywhere; even my bra was soaked. My roommate Ro is a backup dancer for the singer who performs at Planet Hollywood, so I went there to get a shirt from her and their makeup artist wanted to do my makeup. And Ro didn’t have any plain T-shirts to pick from. It was this or a crop top.”
“I bet you can wear the hell out of a crop top.”
She laughs. “Negative. The parts of me that are covered in clothes are a blinding shade of white. And while Ro has washboard abs, mine are more like…Jell-O.”
“I think softness is sexy. And I also think you’re beautiful.”
Gia shoves a bite of syrupy pancake in her mouth, probably to avoid responding. I don’t let her off easy by changing the subject. I just watch as she chews way too long, her cheeks pink.
“Well…thanks,” she finally says. “But I’m pretty average.”
“You are anything but average. When I sat down across from you at that table the first time I saw you, I couldn’t look away.”
“Did I mention that I’m not looking to get involved with anyone right now?”
I furrow my brow in a confused look. “All I remember you saying was that you want to date me and fuck me. And just FYI, same. I’m not particular about the order we do them in.”
“I said if I wanted a man, it would be you. But I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because…I’m here playing poker for a reason. That reason is more important to me than anything, and I don’t want to lose my focus.”
I grin. “So you’re acknowledging that if we get involved, you won’t be able to concentrate on anything but your hot boyfriend?”
“I acknowledge that you’re a pain in my ass,” she says with a pointed look.
“I’m too much of a gentleman to crack a joke here.”
Gia’s expression is skeptical, but also amused. “Are you, though?”
I move on, hoping to change her stance on dating me.
“Can I ask what the reason is you’re playing poker?”
A shadow of discomfort flickers over her face. “It’s something no one knows about.” She pauses and then adds, “It involves my father.”
If her dad died eight years ago, what could her presence here have to do with him? I don’t want to pry, but if it’s the one thing keeping Gia from dating me, I’m not letting it go easily.
“Are you trying to make it to a level he never did?” I ask. “Like the World Series of Poker?”
“No, it’s nothing like that.”
I stare at her for a few seconds, silence surrounding us, trying to decipher her expression. She’s closed off, though, giving me the same face she reserves for the poker tables.
“I want to think your reason for playing is something good,” I finally say. “Something that will make you happy if you finally reach your goal. But I don’t get that vibe.”
“I’ll be happy when I reach it,” she says, still stone-faced.
“So it’s a sure thing? You come here, play poker and you’ll definitely get whatever this is?”
She considers. “I guess there’s a small element of chance, but I plan to do everything I can to make it a sure thing.”
There’s a steely determination in her eyes I’ve never seen there before. I want to keep digging into her motivation for being here, but I don’t want to push her away.
“I like you,” I say instead.
“I like you, too. But I’m not girlfriend material, Maverick. I work from eight at night to four in the morning six nights a week. I keep a low profile. I’m not cut out to be a Barbie-doll girlfriend who cheers you on at every game.”
I feel a flare of aggravation at her assumptions about me. Running a hand through my hair, I say, “Did I ask you for that?”
“Oh, are you thinking just sex? Just the occasional breakfast, we fuck and then it’s see you next time?”
Her tone is curt; Gia seems preemptively hurt by something I haven’t even done or suggested doing. I hold in my frustration, though—mostly.
“Why are you so goddamn abrasive all of a sudden?” I ask. “Judge me by my actions, not your assumptions. I’m not an asshole.”
“I know myself,” she says. “You’re someone I’d want what I can’t have with.”
I sigh heavily, an elbow on the table and my forehead resting against my fist.
“Talking to you about this is like trying to decode a riddle. Can’t I just take you out for dinner? Whatever night you’re not playing poker? There’s something here, and we both know it.”
