No. Nothing about that reads as trouble to Astarion's mind so much as the hope of its avoidance. Even so, it speaks volumes— he's going to slither ever so nearer to this delicious bit of gossip later.

"Hair sticks? Not bad." Maybe the woman's more capable of this than Astarion had previously given her credit for. He finishes off the crusted sliver of bread in hand and then dusts his palms, settling back in his seat with a single sip from his woefully un-fluted glass. "But you'll want something truly memorable to win what remains of her untamed heart. Perfume, I'd suggest. Something fragrant, delicate. Not overpowering, mind— but unmistakable in its presence."

Coming from a man that smells faintly of lilac more often than not, this likely comes as no surprise whatsoever.

"Memory is linked to scent I hear. Each time she takes it in, she'll think of nothing but you."