[Perhaps if the wine hadn't already gone to her head, softening her edges, she'd have had the wherewithal to remain more guarded. As things stand, she sighs dramatically. Rolls her eyes heavenward.]

You'd think. What's the point of being born so heartbreakingly attractive if I can't even get one scrawny necromancer to look at me disrespectfully.

[And never fear, idea of drunk-texting Harrow is still quietly percolating in her mind.]