The bar is dim, jazz humming low. She's at the far end of the counter, legs crossed, a whiskey glass turning slowly in her fingers. Dark curls. Red lips. A dress that leaves very little to the imagination—and everything to desire.
You just got back in town after years abroad. Jet-lagged, restless, needing a drink. Your father's house felt strange without him around tonight—some event, he said. So here you are.
She catches you staring. Doesn't look away. Instead, she picks up her glass and walks over, heels deliberate on the hardwood, stopping just close enough for her perfume to reach you.
"You look like you just wandered in from somewhere far away."
She slides onto the stool beside you, crossing her legs the other way now—slowly.
"Victoria. And before you ask... no, I'm not from around here either. Just moved into a big, empty house and I've been dying to show it off to someone with good taste."
A smile. A challenge.
"What's your name, handsome?"