Micah snorted. “Charming.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard I’m a bit lacking in that department. But I also have it on good authority that my devastatingly good looks more than make up for it.”

Micah rolled his eyes at the absurdity of the man, but he couldn’t deny the amusement pulling at his mouth and looked closer at the guy. He was cute enough – clean-cut with classic good looks. Most would probably dismiss him as a typical frat boy, but something about his eyebrows reminded him of Damon, which was probably (definitely) what had him seriously reconsidering Tessa’s suggestion of a one-night stand.

“So…” the man interrupted his perusal after a moment, “what’s the verdict? Not charmed enough? Or not drunk enough? Because I have an easy enough remedy for that second one.”

Micah pressed his lips together – they were still pleasantly tingly. “I suppose I could use a drink,” he hedged.

The man’s eyes lit up. “Tequila shots?”

Micah shouldn’t. He had planned on one more vodka soda, figuring he could make it last the rest of the night until Tessa was ready to go home. But the man’s genuine excitement was contagious. He nodded.

The man whooped.

Micah let him take care of waving down one of the bartenders, and within a couple minutes two shot glasses along with a pair of lemon wedges and a little bowl of salt were placed in front of them.

Micah took hold of his shot glass, preparing himself for the bite of the alcohol. With his other hand, he pinched a bit of salt, intending on sprinkling it onto the back of his hand.

Except, before he could do that, his wrist was being snatched away by the man who’d bought him the shot. “Wait.”

“May I?” he asked, nodding at the juncture of Micah’s neck and shoulder.

Micah hesitated, but after a moment, alcohol-induced recklessness had him shrugging. “Sure.”

Eyes gleaming, the man took his time sprinkling a healthy amount of salt along the exposed skin of Micah’s neck and collar bone. Micah followed his lead, rubbing the salt he’d grabbed into the tendons of the man’s neck.

“Who’s going first?”

“Me.”

Before he could second-guess his own declaration, Micah tipped back his shot, the tequila a painful burn down his throat, setting his esophagus afire. He grabbed the man by the fabric of his shirt, yanking him forward so he could lick the salt off his neck. He tasted like sweat and salt (obviously) and the bitter tang of whatever cologne he must have sprayed on before coming to the club. It was fine – good even. But it wasn’t Damon.

And fuck, it was so stupid. Micah didn’t even know Damon – not really. But the man took up so much space in his goddamn brain that Micah couldn’t even enjoy a harmless shot with another guy without the man’s absurdly beautiful face, along with his disappointed scowl, flooding his thoughts.

Micah must have hidden his disappointment well enough – either that, or the other guy was as drunk as Micah was – because he looked no less enthused when Micah pulled away and plopped a lemon wedge in his mouth, biting into its supple flesh, the sourness helping wash away the taste of tequila.