#brad 02

Blame the drink or two already in her, but she’s got a critical eye. Maybe not critical so much as analytical, reading the faces around her at the bar. She didn’t come with company, after all -- who would she bring here anyway? Wouldn’t drag Morgan here, and who else does she have? Her grandmother? Snorting at that thought, Ingrid polishes off another beer just in time to catch sight of a somewhat familiar member of the staff. Perky, usually. But looking less so today. It’s enough to raise her brow, and the alcohol in her bloodstream convinces her to speak up about it: “Hey. Bradley, right?” The werewolf pauses, waiting to be corrected if necessary. Since she’s not, she goes on. “Hate to say it, but you look, uh... less chipper than usual. Not that I’m giving you customer service advice, ‘cause I’m sure as hell not.” Another beat and Ingrid sighs. Hell, she’s bored. Maybe lonely. Should probably just text Morgan, but instead, she pries. “Penny for your thoughts? Feel like maybe I need some entertainment, or at least a conversation, but you don’t necessarily have to give it.”