Emma wasn't quite as oblivious as she seemed. She wasn't stupid. She didn't survive Boston's foster system without having wit, cleverness, and a bit of charm. No, she wasn't a scholar by any means, but she was street smart. And a fighter. The riff raff of Boston could attest to that. Whether willingly or kicking and screaming, she always got her prey in the end. Finding out about her own awkward history hadn't changed that, and neither would this...tryst, or whatever it may be, with one of the most cunning villains in literary history.
She did know a thing or two about dressing to impress. She also knew about concealing a weapon no matter how tight the clothing was. The dress was short and red and snug in the right places, but it flared. And beneath that flared skirt rested a holster at her thigh, complete with pistol. In some ways, she was treating this as nothing more than the next case on her list.
Though with a case, she'd never have gotten into the car he sent for her. Nor would she have allowed him to present her with flowers. She would have been much more cautious. So what the hell did this man have over her? Was he like this with everyone? Was that how they ended up dead? Fall under his spell and there it all went downhill? Emma wasn't afraid to die, she had to admit. Henry wasn't here, and he was what she'd been living for. And maybe, if she was lucky, when you died in this place, you got sent home. Watching her show on the television hadn't been her brightest move. All it did was make her worry about her child. Or, rather, Regina's child.
So she was confident, at least in appearance, as she entered the restaurant, three roses in her hand. It was alternately sweetly romantic and creepily disturbing. She attempted the demure look, tucking her hair behind her ear as she slipped into the back room, looking for her 'date' for the evening.