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"Damn, nice rack!"
Hanna-Belle whirled around, indignant and already planning out the best way to acquire this tasteless pig's private information to add to her rolodex. Who would dare to make such a distastefully puerile move on her at a prestigious psychology conference of all places?
Her ire almost immediately cooled into confusion when the offender wasn't actually staring at her admittedly ample chest, but rather the space above her head.
"You ever get stuck in doorframes with those things? Low ceilings must be a right pain!" The man continued, his eyes darting admiringly over empty air.
He was quite handsome, a bit rough around the edges in a careless outdoorsy way and wearing way too much unflattering tweed and flannel, but she could tell that a certain classic rennaissance beauty hid under the stubble and wild curls. Closer examination also revealed his face to be slightly flushed and his eyes somewhat glassy.
Hanna-Belle stepped closer and took a deep breath of the man's scent.
"Did you just smell me?" He sounded only curious, not the least bit offended by this admittedly rather odd and invasive gesture.
"I have a very acute sense of smell. I apologize for being so forward, but I would highly recommend getting yourself thoroughly checked over by a competent neurologist. There is a fevered sweetness to your odor, a simmering inflammation of the brain. Have you been suffering from persistent headaches? Hallucinations? Lost time?"
"I take it the impressive pair of antlers you're sporting isn't real then. It's a shame, they look very fetching on you." He sighed, sounding genuinely disappointed. His mouth twisted into a pout, his brow adorably furrowed.
To her own surprise, Hanna-Belle felt a light blush creep up her neck. A feverish man's awkward compliment for purely imaginary features had left her more flustered than far more sophisticated flirtations ever had - how embarrassing!
"No antlers on my head, I'm afraid. Please, for my continued peace of mind, get tested as soon as you can. My guess for your ailment would be encephalitis - definitely not a thing to take lightly. If you're amenable, I would like for you to keep me apprised of your condition." Hanna-Belle was already pressing her own business card into the stranger's hand, before she could question the uncommon eagerness of her actions.
"Oh, thank you, that's very kind of you. Uhm, sure, here you go." He fished a slightly dog-eared card of his own out of a pocket and handed it to her. "I'll let you know how it goes? Probably best if I get myself to a hospital post-haste, if it's really encephalitis. Thanks for the impromptu diagnosis, I guess? Uhm, bye!"
And with that he hurried off, leaving behind the lingering aroma of his atrocious aftershave. Hanna-Belle's eyes were involuntarily drawn to the mesmerizing sight of his deliciously firm ass and strong thighs, following their movements until the man finally disappeared into the crowd.
The whole encounter had barely lasted five minutes, but Hanna-Belle found herself unusually intruiged, despite the man's deplorable lack of fine manners. She examined the card, a slight gasp escaping her lips as she beheld her new acquaintance's identity.
Will Graham!
She'd read about him - his overactive empathy, his uncanny ability to get into the heads of violent killers, his deep insights into mankind's darkest impulses. The man was a fascinating enigma she'd been wanting to meet and study ever since she'd first heard of him.
How serendipitous! Fortuna was clearly smiling upon her this night.
And how absolutely delightful that such a marvelous mind came in such an aesthetically pleasing package.
She lifted the card to her nose to sample the lingering scents. Fish and motor oil. A variety of canines. Soil and greenery.
Time to buy some sturdy hiking outfits and sort through my recipes for the more simple rustic ones, she thought, an anticipatory smile curling her lips.