She'd deposited him back at the tavern. He sat again in his well-worn seat, a cup of well-watered wine in his hands. After an initial swish <sip> to get the dust and taste of the city out of his mouth, he hadn't touched it. He just pushed it back and forth on the wood table.
Irene watched him. Her lashes were thick, he noticed. They made her eyes look darker, more mysterious. To fill the silence, he raised his glass again.
“What do you think of what you saw?” she asked the moment the clay cup touched his lips.
<blah, blah, blah. Talk talk talk. He implies that he's willing to throw in with her. His thoughts imply otherwise for a little bit of dramatic irony for the reader. I really am having problems figuring this out for her, which makes me think it's out of character. So if I work towards the climax, hopefully something will come to me. It's very flat right now. :/>