“That’s cute you think Clint uses anything but diner salt packets.”

Sharon takes the offered lime wedge, eyeing the bottle of tequila open on the table.  “Look at you, being nice to me,” she teases, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth as she picks up the shot glass.

“So – what’re we toasting to, aside from you getting out of here?”

“Well, he’s out of those too, then.”

“I’m capable of a certain amount of niceness, you know.” She lifts the shot glass, humor lacing the lines in her expression, one brow tilted upward. “How about Rogers? America, etcetera? I don’t care.” Glasses clink, she tips the tequila down her throat, chases it with the lime. 

“Real nice party, Carter.”


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