Micah waited for Adella to leave before making his opinion of that particular fact known. “Milk, really? I told you. I’m twenty-three, not five.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “You got ID to prove that?”

He did as a matter of fact.

The precinct had been thorough in prepping him for his current role. They’d provided him with a driver’s license to go along with his fake identity – not that he imagined many johns would ask to see proof of age before soliciting him for sex. Still, he couldn’t help but feel smug as he pulled the license out of his pocket and slid it over for the man to inspect.

He wasn’t expecting for a ghost of a grin to pull at the corner of the guy’s mouth. “Peregrine?”

Micah refused to be embarrassed by a name that wasn’t even his. He didn’t feel any heat creep up his neck at all as he quickly swiped the license back from the man, shoving it back into his pocket. “My parents were hippies, okay?” More like his co-workers were cruel bastards. “Anyway, what’d you get saddled with?” he demanded in retaliation.

The man frowned. “What?”

“Your name,” Micah clarified. “I can’t keep calling you my knight in shining Armani, or alternately, my kidnapper,” – he made sure to stress that word – “in my head.”

The man frowned. “Oh. It’s Damon.”

“Damon,” Micah repeated slowly, letting it sit heavy on his tongue. It was a perfectly respectable name – strong and masculine. It suited the man.

A muscle in Damon’s jaw spasmed at the sound of it spoken in Micah’s soft tenor, his eyes drifting to his mouth.

Embarrassed, and sure the man thought he was a complete freak in addition to the whole prostitute thing, Micah grasped for a conversation starter, rolling with the first thing that popped into his head. “So, you and the waitress clearly know each other.”

The man – Damon – tore his gaze away from Micah’s mouth, offering a nod. “That’s Adella. She’s not actually a waitress here. She co-owns this place with her wife, who’s also the head chef.”

Micah frowned in confusion. “I thought you said this was your restaurant,” he pointed out.

“I said I was an investor,” Damon corrected, waving away the technicality. “We also grew up together. Adella was the only daughter of our maid.”

A maid. So Damon had been born rich. Micah supposed that explained how he could afford to finance a restaurant at such a young age.

“Is she the one that taught you how to speak Spanish?” Micah asked. “It’s pretty flawless.”

His grasp on the language. Not the man himself, obviously.

“No, that was mostly her mother, Mrs. Cortez. Although Adella did teach me an unsavory phrase or two.”

Micah couldn’t help but snort. “I bet. Did she get you into a lot of trouble when you were kids?”

“Ha! This guy?” Adella interrupted loudly, suddenly back with their drinks, setting a short glass of amber liquor down in front of Damon and an alarmingly full glass of white milk down in front of Micah. “Yeah, right. You’re sitting next to the biggest stick-in-the-mud to ever grace the planet. When I was a girl, I was half-convinced he was a robot. This cold bastard has been wrapped up in his work for as long as I can remember, and I’ve known him since he was in Pull-Ups.” She shook her head in mock sorrow. “It’s quite sad, really. I keep waiting for something to give, for him to find a reason to let himself loosen up a little – actually enjoy life.” Adella shot Micah a particular look. “Though maybe he finally has.”