"I don't need a forecast." All he needed was the sky, weathermen were simply not reliable enough. They could look at their fancy machinery all they wanted to. But he was the better barometer than any random electronic apparatus. Brennan spent most of his life either drowning in booze or by the water, he knew the habits of the sea, the look of the clouds above, the way the wind changed. He needed to, when your out in the turbulent ocean you needed to be very intimate with the details. There was no way in hell he was going to put his life in the hands of a gadget. How painfully aware he was of those tiny nuances that so many ignored, that included fickleness of women and weather.

Why didn't he warn her, well his motives were devious you see. "And take away the sopping wet vision I have before me? Never." The Irishman responds easily, even despite her teasing words. Those ocean eyes laced with silver possess a certain waywardness within them. Her own eyes seem to shine with an impish sheen, perhaps the lass was eager to play with the no-good rascal. At least she wasn't one of those prissy women who sulked the moment a little rain sullied their plans. Women were so very much like cats, he was sure of it, they hated to get wet.

The thunder rumbled again, he felt the shudder deep within his chest, the sound startling to the couple to the right of them. The woman looked entirely pissed off and was prepared to move their food inside the building. Bunch of wusses. His gaze shifted back to the woman, noticing the white clothes and how the drenching rain had made them see through. He certainly had no shame. This seemed to catch the snippy woman off guard as a rose pink bloomed upon her cheeks, turning away. The wily warlock smirked to himself when he truly should have been ashamed. Poor girl didn't need to feel exposed by the man, nor did she need to be aware of his brazen straying gaze. He felt no hint of guilt as the conversation faded into obscurity. Maybe then she would learn to avoid men like him.

The waitress could not come at a better time, the scent of his hot food assaulting his nose. He drew it in selfishly. But not without pouring himself a healthy glass of whiskey. When she disappeared he could hardly wait before diving into his food.

He took a bite of his hot buttery meal, and he nearly closed his eyes savoring that meaty goodness. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed a meal such as this. It was the little things. "God, this is damn good." He muttered to himself like he never had such a meal before in his life. It might as well been another lifetime ago. He would never take it for granted. At least that was what he told himself.

Brennan caught the dark-haired woman looking at him again, it seemed like such a shy, curious stolen glance before she looked away. The warlock caught her red-handed and he wasn't about to let that just go unnoticed. Not when he could have his fun. He had just caught her staring which meant she was interested. She claimed to be curious as to what he was drinking, although he doubted it was simply just that reason alone. "Irish whiskey, this one I am surprised a place like this even has. Its called Redbreast, 12 year. If that means anything to you, missy." He enjoyed the spicy flavors on his tongue along with that richness he was fond of. She then claims whiskey was her beverage of choice. Well, you did not hear that every day. He turned his head to view her as if trying to determine if she was telling the truth, cocking a brow at her. Her eyes seemed too bright and pale against her dark chocolate locks, he wasn't sure how it went unnoticed before. Perhaps it was because he was too busy looking.. elsewhere.

"Not many women prefer whiskey. But how much whiskey can you handle, that is what I am curious about.. Why they call it the fighting drink I have no idea.." He grinned that sly smile. The sky seemed to open up with a renewed fury, the rain pelting down around them. The humidity in the air made him peer at the tumultuous sky once more as if the clouds could tell him something. His hand reached for that glass drawing it to his lips, downing the liquid in one fell swoop. The burning felt delicious as it went down, warming him. Whiskey and eggs needed to become a regular thing, he assured himself.

She asked him if he was a bad influence and he laughed a rich baritone sound. He poured himself another glass. "Well, I am definitely no saint." He wasn't going to pretend to be something he wasn't. She claims she barely knows him, was she trying to play coy now? He didn't buy it. He knew there was a c to be taking any kind of suggestions from him. He raised a brow at her, watching the woman cave right before his eyes. He pushed that bottle toward her to further to tempt her. "... and yet..." then she reaches for that bottle. "That's a girl." He wonders how far she could tip over that edge. He could tell she was a good girl, someone who should not be trifling with the likes of him. He was born in the gutter and perhaps he never got out. But damn did he live. He could never that deny that he clutched at life and squeezed until there was nothing more to give.

"You don't know your living unless you live a little." The devious man coaxes smoothly. Maybe he doesn't need to drink this early alone after all. He took another bite of his food, washing it down with that familiar taste of whiskey. That is one way to clean out the old pipes.

"Well Kathryn.. It's a pleasure, you can call me Brennan." He offered her that charming one sided grin. He then raised his glass filled with his drink of choice for her to meet with her own, waiting to hear that satisfying clink before the irish warlock declared in that mischievous Irish croon.
"To bad choices.."

Brennan O'Connell