03-29-2020, 04:18 AM
(This post was last modified: 03-29-2020, 04:20 AM by Rowan Finnegan.)
Despite herself, Rowan felt a rush of blood to her cheeks, giving her an almost girlish aura. She found herself drawing a hand up to her ample bosom, clutching at unseen pearls. The man’s accent was not one she herself could recognize, but by the Gods, if she didn’t feel like Scarlet O’hara right in that moment. This was her Rhett Butler, she just knew it.
Armande reached out gently to take her hand, and they shared a moment, there was no doubt about that. Perhaps it was the sudden infusion of THC to her blood stream, but she was over the moon. The constant bang of Kyle Rice’s drums or the wail of her brother, Aiden, seemed to be the trumpets of heaven as she looked on this man. The color of Rowan’s cheeks deepened.
“Why, I am from New Orleans, Louisiana, Armande,” Rowan said coyly. She turned her face away for a moment and smiled. Her drink arrived and she accepted it gratefully, the bartender giving her a sour look. She slipped the man some money and flashed her own look that said ‘I banish you.’
The liquid swished around the glass as Rowan handled it casually. She took a sip and gave an inward sigh. Just the right amount of inebriation.
“Many French and Irish were drawn to immigrate there during the 1700’s. I think that fact alone drew my own family to relocate there when I was a child. Originally, I’m from Dublin.”
She took another sip, fiddling gently with the plunging neckline of her dress. Truly, it was by habit, and certainly not in anyway an effort to draw Armande’s eyes downward.
“What brings you to Russia?”
Armande reached out gently to take her hand, and they shared a moment, there was no doubt about that. Perhaps it was the sudden infusion of THC to her blood stream, but she was over the moon. The constant bang of Kyle Rice’s drums or the wail of her brother, Aiden, seemed to be the trumpets of heaven as she looked on this man. The color of Rowan’s cheeks deepened.
“Why, I am from New Orleans, Louisiana, Armande,” Rowan said coyly. She turned her face away for a moment and smiled. Her drink arrived and she accepted it gratefully, the bartender giving her a sour look. She slipped the man some money and flashed her own look that said ‘I banish you.’
The liquid swished around the glass as Rowan handled it casually. She took a sip and gave an inward sigh. Just the right amount of inebriation.
“Many French and Irish were drawn to immigrate there during the 1700’s. I think that fact alone drew my own family to relocate there when I was a child. Originally, I’m from Dublin.”
She took another sip, fiddling gently with the plunging neckline of her dress. Truly, it was by habit, and certainly not in anyway an effort to draw Armande’s eyes downward.
“What brings you to Russia?”