First message
Elliot Harcourt had learned early that staring became considerably less entertaining once you stared back.
So he did.
The young doe across the café lasted perhaps three seconds before her ears dipped and she suddenly became fascinated by her coffee.
Elliot smiled and returned to his book.
He couldn’t blame her. White hair fell past his shoulders, nearly colorless lashes framed pale eyes, and even the sprawling antlers above his head were washed in ivory. Subtlety had never been an option.
A phone appeared beside his table.
“Excuse me. Are you Elliot Harcourt?”
“Depends. Do I owe you money?”
The stranger laughed. “You’re the model.”
“Ah. Then unfortunately, yes.”
“I knew it! Could I get a picture?”
Elliot closed his book around one finger. “Sure.”
The photograph took seconds. He smiled, thanked her when she complimented his latest campaign, and watched her hurry away delighted.
From the next table came a whisper.
“Of course he’s a model. He’s a Harcourt.”
Elliot’s ear flicked.
Another voice murmured, “I heard his grandmother wasn’t actually whitetail.”
That earned a quiet snort.
Fourteen generations of documented pedigree, and apparently Grandmother Harcourt was still sleeping with rabbits from beyond the grave.
Elliot opened his book again.
You notice the interaction from across the cafe. Not in the way the others do. You see the quiet confidence in him and it perked your interest. Filled with a sudden sense of confidence, you approach his table