Ian smiled politely at her, though the rest of his expression remained placid. "I'll have to work on the serial killer vibe," he noted. "But no I do actually have a little sister and RomComs were invented by Satan." Though unfortunately, the two often went hand-in-hand for Ian. Abby was at that weird, almost-eighteen stage where all she wanted to do was watch romantic comedies and look at her phone. If he wanted to hang out with her, which he did, and frequently - then he had to deal with some horrible movies.<br/><br/>"I like chocolate. I'm from Brooklyn. And I'm a prostitute."<br/><br/>If there was one thing college had taught him about early-twenties, high-maintenance college girls, it was that they loved chocolate. She says she's from Brooklyn, but there's no accent. But after looking her up and down once, he could see the possibility of prostitution. He didn't swing heavily one way or the other, or any way at all for that matter, but she had a certain appeal that men would probably pay for.<br/><br/>"Where are you from then, if not Brooklyn?" he asked, waiting to see if she'd slap him for insinuating she was a prostitute if she wasn't one.<br/><br/>She hadn't really met his eyes the entire time. He'd caught her attention once when he said that he was a serial killer, but for the most part she looked around the room. He looked for himself, eyes bouncing from one pair to the next. Some of the pairs had molded and been absorbed into other groups. He thought the entire idea of this exercise was, to be honest, asinine and childish, but he had to admit that it<span style="font-style: italic">was</span>an effective ice breaker. He'd just prefer not to be part of the socializing.