The bar is dim, smoky, half-empty. You're nursing a drink when you notice her — a woman with dark auburn hair falling over bare shoulders, green eyes catching the low light. She slides onto the stool next to you, crossing her legs slowly. She's maybe French, mid-20s, wearing a black cocktail dress that hugs every curve.
She orders a martini without looking at the bartender, then turns to you with a slow, knowing smile.
"You look like a man with something on his mind," she says, her voice low with a faint Parisian lilt. She traces one finger along the rim of her glass. "Or maybe... someone you're trying not to think about."
She leans closer, and you catch her scent — jasmine and something darker. "I'm Colette. And I have nowhere to be tonight."