He gave her a pleading look. “I really, really don’t like country music.”

“No problem.” She plugged in her phone. “Post-country Taylor Swift it is then!”

Ash made a sound of pain and tipped his head back against the headrest. It was so comically dramatic, so vintage Ash, that a wave of fondness flooded Kincaid. The song “22” came on, and she sang the opening lyrics straight at him. When she got to the line about dressing up like hipsters, his head snapped her way.

He gave her an accusatory look, but then they both burst out laughing. She hadn’t planned the song. It just happened to be the first alphabetically on her Swift playlist. But the words were so perfect that the heavy worry she’d been feeling before they got in the car lifted a little. This was Ash. Just Ash.

She sang louder and rolled the windows down just enough to let a breeze in as they pulled onto the interstate. By the second verse, she caught him in the act. He was singing along. Accurately.

She peeked over at him with faux shock. “Well, as I live and breathe. Ashton Isaacs, you’re a Swiftie!”

He sat up taller in his seat and gave her a quelling look. “I am no such thing. Her songs are just…catchy. They’re laced with earworms. It’s a conspiracy.”

Kincaid laughed and sang the line about him looking like bad news. But then she realized she’d trapped herself into singing “I gotta have you” straight to his face. She quickly turned her attention back to the road and hit the button on her steering wheel to skip to the next song.

Maybe she should’ve played “Bad Blood” instead. That was where she needed to keep her head at. This was Ashton Isaacs. This was a fresh start, but that didn’t make the past disappear. This was the guy who had broken her heart and left her without looking back.

He would leave again.

She had enough going on in her life not to add that to the mix.

* * *

The Tipsy Hound was filling up by the time she and Ash arrived. She looked around at the place in all its divey glory. The bar was small but not claustrophobic, the dim lighting making it seem like some secret hideaway. The black floor had a vague stickiness beneath her feet, but the wooden tables were always sparkling clean.

Kincaid smirked. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but it grows on you. The drinks are cheap and usually the entertainment is good—well, on karaoke night, ‘good’ isn’t exactly the right word, but ‘entertaining’ still applies. Tonight will definitely be great because Taryn is performing.”

Ash looked uncomfortable as hell—hands in the pockets of his jeans, gaze shifting around the place—but he sent her a quick smile. “It’s cool.”

The statement seemed genuine despite his obvious discomfort. She bumped her shoulder into his. “Come on, you didn’t do the club or bar scene in all your travels?”