Isn't he just a peach? He flushes and goes all confused with his words and tone, like he's plum forgotten how to string a sentence together, and she thinks it's about the sweetest thing she's ever seen.

The flattery in it doesn't exactly hurt, either. And neither do his manners -- ma'am, as she lives and breathes, while he glances down at the table in a floundering of what looks a hell of a lot like shyness, and apologizes for being impolite, as if she hasn't spent the greater part of her adult life letting catcalls go unheard and ignored. And that was before moving to a modern city, where it seems like nobody's got any kind of filters or inhibitions at all.

She holds off on drawing out a chair at the table she'd picked, considers for less than a full heartbeat's worth of time, and then saunters on over to where he's sitting, leaning a hand on the back of a chair and smiling down at him, as warm as he is embarrassed. "You know, I might consider it a compliment."

At least, she does now, after seeing his reaction at getting caught. "What's your name, handsome?"