Vincent-Theodore Bartholomew rubbed his temples as he sat outside the small cafe. Why did writing have to be so difficult? With a sigh, the man leaned comfortably in his chair and tilted his head back. He let the sun warm his face as he closed his eyes. It was a beautiful day, and it wasn't often that he left the house. Unfortunately, it was due to a plot of his dear nephew.
Frowning at the reminder, he resumed his previous sitting position.
Speaking of which, he narrowed his eyes and scanned the other patrons of the cafe.
I suppose I should look for my date. He practically sneered the word aloud, but kept his face impassive.
Looking over the top of his laptop, he noticed a rather stylish woman sitting by herself, her smile seeming to have an almost sharp edge to it. Plastering on his usual smirk, he closed the laptop gently and slipped it back into his bag. After shouldering the laptop bag, he grabbed the still full cappuccino and made his way to the woman's table.
Standing off to the side, but still in her line of view, he bowed slightly, smirk still in place. "
Vincent Bartholomew," he intoned with a drawl as he held out his hand. "
It's a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Miss...?"