Re: The Bar
She watched him openly, plainly, with no blushing or demureness, no attempt to pretend she was doing anything other than what she was doing. Her blue-gray eyes were alight with a knowingly little smile, and she held onto the glass with delicate fingers as he took a mouthful of the drink. She watched him straighten, and she tipped her head a little when he spoke again.
Wren's Italian was not as good as her French. It was more schoolbook than conversation, a combination of words that didn't work quite right and things meant to be chaste turned dirty for her own private use. "You are Italian?" she asked in his tongue, her own accent very obviously from somewhere in the south of the United States when she spoke the words.
She tipped the remainder of the sweet drink back, and she put it on the counter without breaking eye contact with him. "Now we don't have anything to drink," she told him. "Unless you can think of something else you want." Sly smile.