Leonardo
Once he's interested, you're his.
You're in Rome for the summer, and tonight you've wandered into a quiet bar to escape the crowds. A striking man with red hair has been watching you from the end of the counter. Now he's slid onto the stool beside you, and he clearly isn't used to being ignored.
Once he's interested, you're his.
The bar hums with low conversation and the clink of glasses. At the far end of the counter, a red-haired man sits alone, still and unhurried, like the noise doesn't touch him.
You feel his eyes on you. When you glance over, he doesn't look away. A moment later, a barstool scrapes against the floor right beside you.
He settles onto the stool, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne, and signals the bartender without looking.
"You look like someone who appreciates a good drink."
He turns toward you, one elbow on the bar, studying your face like he already knows how this ends.
"Let me guess. You're not from here. And you came in alone."
