Working in a bar, Micah was sure the woman had heard more than her fair share of break-up stories, but she was incredibly sweet as he told the sordid tale, making sympathetic noises at the appropriate places and not questioning the massive holes in the story – like how Damon made so much money, or what Micah’s job was that the man would considerate it to be worse than a prostitute.

Micah resolved to leave her a huge tip. Hell, he might even be drunk enough to dig into the funds Damon left him to do it – even if he knew he would regret it in the morning.

(It was probably still cheaper than real therapy, sadly.)

Micah hadn’t realized he’d finished his drink and that he’d been hogging the woman’s attention until her co-worker, another bartender who’d showed up slightly before rush hour, called over, clearly annoyed. “You planning on taking any orders any time tonight, Zoe?”

The woman rolled her eyes, offering Micah an apologetic smile. “Sorry, doll. I have to get back to work.” She eyed his empty glass. “Maybe take a little break before the next one, though, hm?”

Normally, Micah hated being babied, but she probably had a point considering how flushed he could feel his face was, so he merely nodded instead of arguing.

It really had gotten busy in the past hour, the relatively small pub nearly overflowing with people. Most of the seats at the bar, and all the tables, were occupied. Micah was surprised no one had taken either of the chairs by him, but he supposed the melancholy rolling off him in waves had put off anyone who may have considered approaching.

He must have jinxed himself with the thought because not a few minutes later, he heard the legs of the chair next to him scrape against the floor.

“Hi.”

At some point, Micah had decided to lay his head against the countertop of the bar, the wood pleasantly cool against his warm cheek. He reluctantly lifted his head and turn to look at the newcomer.

Micah hadn’t consumed enough liquor that his vision was blurry, but he still had to concentrate more than he should have to take in the man’s features. Micah’s first thought was that he was very average looking.

Probably in his thirties, and neither tall nor short, the man had plain brown hair and eyes. The most remarkable thing about him was the large, square-frame glasses perched on his nose and the crocheted sweater he wore – strange apparel for a bar.

Still, something about him niggled at Micah’s brain, though he had no idea why. If he’d ever seen this man before, it hadn’t been a noteworthy occasion.

Regardless, he tilted his head to the side and asked bluntly, “Do I know you?”