The boy with brandished gold locks could practically feel the irritation radiating off her and all that seemed to do was make that grin grow even wider upon his face. He just loved getting underneath another person's skin. She shouldn't feel too badly for his reason for picking her to pester this afternoon. Marcelo loved going on dates, now not to be confused with actually dating someone, that was far too much of a commitment for someone who was as flighty and irresponsible as the brandished golden haired were boy. But dates, well dates were something different entirely to the bronzed haired lad. He loved showing up, wearing nice clothes, probably not with flowers, but rather just a wolfish grin on his face. He would lean casually against the door frame and knock on the door for the girl to open it only to be met with those mischievous yet irresistible dark eyes of his. And he would smile, but his smile, it is wrong somehowâ€" the curve of his lips is either too flat or too tilted, the maddening, self-righteous gleam in his eye diminishes the effect of his being a pleasant, well-to-do sort of fellow. Every one of Marcelo's smiles is wicked for one reason or another, twisted, toothy grins that make a person feel about as comfortable and welcome as an infant in a tank full of piranhas, but he was bitter as a child and it has carried into his adult years. Truth be told, he is lonely. Truth be told, he doesn't necessarily care.

He runs a hand through brandished gold hair in response to her hesitant smile with one of his own on those lips of his. Though, Marcelo's is anything but hesitant. "Emmy?" He says, these modern day names still managed to surprise him. Where were the good old names like George of Elizabeth? "Emmy," he repeats, deciding you got to work with what you got.

The look of shock on her face is damn near priceless when he hands her money back to her, instead paying the waitress himself. Marcelo had the fortunate luck that he would never have to worry about money for the rest of his days, though it wasn't an easily won fate. Still, to go from poor peasant son of a farmer to rolling in dough and spending cash like it was going out of style wasn't too shabby he would say. "Of course today," he says, looking to her with those mocha eyes of his. "I am all about the here and now. Life is too short." Ironic. Coming from the immortal one. Five centuries and it seems he still has not lived quite long enough.

Marcelo holds out his hand expectantly. "Well, you coming or not?" He asks with that same wicked grin. When her hand reaches in his, Marcelo laughs for just a beat, knowing there was no going back now for her. "Good," he says in response as he leads her out of the bar. "Just the kind of answer I like to hear." He lets go of her hand as he reaches for the door. Marcelo may be a dick, but his parents did raise him to be a gentleman, so he opens the door for her and waits for Emmy to walk out before following behind her. "This way," he says once more taking the lead, only stopping when she mentions his flip flops. "Hmm, that may be a problem," he says, but almost immediately an idea comes to him and he kicks off his vans, now left in just his black socks. "Here, wear my shoes," he says. Due to the whole, stopping aging at sixteen, Marcelo never fully grew, and hopefully his shoes would somewhat fit her. He waits to see if she will put them on before leading her around to an alley. "Your carriage m'lady," he says, extending those arms and gesturing to a Ducati sport bike of bright red. He walks towards it, grabbing his helmet and placing it in her hands. "Safety first."