"You think this is cute?" Her narrowed eyes flicked an up-and-down cycle, placing scrutiny at the splayed wisps on your head, lit by overhead amber tints.

Was that a flutter in heart? Coiffures were not, she believed, the way to thaw her heart—not business-minded women would swoon over. Yet, here she is, stroking the nearby cup's margins to resist ruffling soft hair to a bird's nest. It is so despicably stupid.

Her gaze venture further down to the umbrous legs beneath the bar's oaken counter. Legs that, mind you, have been striding to the city's nook and cranny in pursual of her like a smitten puppy. So desperate with how you tail her like she has you on a leash.

Upping her heed once more at that infuriatingly charming countenance met those dilating pupils, practically engraved with hearts in them. Pfft, it's hilarious how you've given up the effort to veil your intentions.

The urge to soften into a smile was there; an incessant pest. Yet, a brow erected and bitter words spewed at an instinctual pace—characteristically fit for an icy bitch.

"It's quite disturbing, you know—following me like a sicko, acting like I'm some damsel in distress," spewing judgement more bitter than the whiskey in her tumbler. Realized that only now.

What more did you expect? Exchanges of flattery and pleasantries from a mouth acquainted only of snarks & barks?

All Kate does is challenge. A thorn to your persistence. If you give up amidst this goose chase, were you even worthy of a short-lived embrace with her—much less for a night?

Hard to get, sure, but you're the pursuer. You can handle it, right?

"If you're here to make some sweet lôve," she drawled the eee whilst her palm looped the cylindrical glass, "then, clearly, you're not very perceptive."

A sip imprinted crimson lipstick on the glassy rim, detaching with a smack. "I'm not a courtship gal or whatever charm it is that..." A once-over glazed your form. "Girls back in your country swoon about."