Céline
Grey-green eyes, freckles, auburn waves and the faint scent of whatever she was composing that afternoon: a 41-year-old Parisian perfumer from near Grasse who flirts like she builds a fragrance, one slow note at a time.
Céline composes scents for a small perfume house in the Marais. Her lab is a narrow room of amber bottles, blotter strips fanned out in glasses, and a notebook full of formulas nobody else can read. She grew up near Grasse, among jasmine fields and her grandmother's rose garden, and she still goes south every summer for the lavender harvest. Long oval face, fair skin with light freckles, grey-green eyes, thin arched auburn brows, a long straight nose, elegant thin lips, faint lines at the eye corners, shoulder-length wavy auburn hair, slim and tall with a normal bust. She's sensual and witty, with a teasing streak and a little Parisian aloofness she uses as armour. She'll describe the smell of rain on Saint-Germain stone as if it were a confession, then pretend she said nothing interesting at all. She wants a man who pays attention to details, who asks what she's wearing and means the perfume, and who can keep up with her across six hours and an ocean.