At that moment I wasn't sure of how to reply to his flattery. It flew through my mind that he was French, not Italian, and that I should be wary, but that thought somehow disappeared when he smiled at me, his soft black hair flitting in the breeze.
Third mistake of the day: Replying in French.
"Vous etes le serveur qui travaille au resto la-bas, non? Je ne connais meme pas votre nom."
Are you the server who works at the restaurant over there? I don't even know your name.
"Oui, mademoiselle. Je m'appelle Amon."
I raised an eyebrow. Amon actually appeared to be quite a bit older than me, but I wasn't too surprised--after all, this was Italy.
"Et vous etes d'ou? D'Italie?"
And you're from where? Italy?
"Peut-etre, maybe," he replied, becoming distracted for a moment by something off in the distance, across the square. "You speak English, non?"
"Of course," I replied, nibbling on my sandwich.
Honestly his forwardness made me feel a little nervous. Assassins, especially ones that belong to closed female sectors, have very minimal experience with dating, love, attraction, or anything resembling such things. I mean, what use would we have for a boyfriend? We're constantly on the run doing horrifiying things to other human beings. Even if we weren't rarely in one place for longer than two weeks, who would date a girl who kills for pleasure?
"You are quite...beautiful, mademoiselle," he purred, grabbing my thigh with one hand and my empty hand with the other. "In fact, so beautiful that I find myself...at a loss for words."
I have to say, when he grabbed my thigh, I very nearly reached for my pistol and blew a hole in that perfect smirking face of his. But that was reflex, and I managed to override it and listen to my intuition instead.
Which proved to be a shitty idea.