She sniffed indelicately against his shirt collar. “I don’t want to be crying. I hate crying. Especially over some stupid guy. And he wasn’t even good in bed, so it was a total waste.”

Ash snorted. “I really don’t want to know about the guy’s bedroom skills.”

“He hung his cowboy hat on his dick like I should be impressed,” she said, her voice muffled against his shirt.

Ash groaned but she could hear the laughter in it. “I’m officially traumatized. Please stop.”

“And he refused to take off his boots,” she said, smiling into his shoulder, some weird delirium replacing the tears. “Like for the whole time.”

“The visuals are literally killing me, KC. Please, no more,” he begged, making the plea overdramatic.

She lifted her head. “When he came—”

Ash pressed his fingers over her lips, shaking his head, biting back a grin. “Nope. Not gonna listen. Can’t—”

“He said ‘yeehaw,’” she finished from behind his fingers.

Ash’s eyes widened, and then he burst out laughing, tipping his head back against the wall and his own tears appearing. “Holy shit. You’re making this up.”

She snort-laughed. “Sadly no. It was really that bad. So, so bad.”

Ash swiped at the corners of his eyes with his knuckle. “Good God. Part of me is glad some guys are that terrible in bed. It must make the rest of us look like rock stars by default.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you’re better than good by default. I mean, look at you.”

Ash stilled, and she realized too late what she’d said. And that they were still standing way too close. She stepped out of his space.

“I mean—” she hedged, but better, more appropriate words didn’t appear.

“Why don’t we get back to the table?” he suggested, filling the awkward silence. “I’m sure your friend is about to go on.”

Kincaid swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “Right. Yes. We should do that.”

They both headed back toward the table, a healthy distance apart. As soon as they took their seats, the lights went down and Taryn stepped onto the stage.

Ash didn’t look at Kincaid again the whole time. She ordered another drink.

When it was dropped in front of her, she ignored Liv’s silent protests and downed it in a few sips.

Twelve

“Sweet baby Jesus, this is the worst music I’ve ever heard in my entire life,” Kincaid declared from the passenger seat. She reached for the dial to change the old-school punk station he’d put on, and Ash batted her hand away.

“Nope,” Ash said happily. “I’m driving now. Someone shouldn’t have had so many margaritas if she wanted to be radio queen.”

Kincaid grumbled dramatically and raked her fingers through her hair. “You’re the worst.”

“I know,” he said, taking the exit to get them to Long Acre. “Which way do I need to go to get to your place?”

“Hmm?” she said, distracted.

“Your house, Breslin?”

“You can’t go to my house. How are you going to get back?” she asked. “Just bring me to the coffee shop by your place. A cup of coffee, and I’ll be fine to drive after. I’m not that far gone. I can hold my liquor.”