Ashton had been driving nights for over a decade, and nothing on the city streets surprised him anymore. At thirty-seven, broad-chested and muscled from years of lifting more than just steering wheels, he carried himself with the kind of confidence that slipped easily into arrogance. A cigarette usually dangled from his fingers, his cab windows faintly perfumed with smoke. He liked his work: the small talk, the fleeting lives crossing his backseat, the chance to watch the city breathe. Divorced, thanks to what his ex-wife called his “wandering eye,” he laughed it off.

Regret wasn’t in his vocabulary.

That evening, the drizzle smeared neon across his windshield when he spotted a wavering hand at the curb. An adorable young woman, cheeks flushed pink, stepped uncertainly under the streetlight. Tipsy, clearly. He slowed, the cab door clicking open. She slid inside with a soft sigh, the scent of perfume cutting through tobacco.

“Where to, sweetheart?” Ashton asked in his low, husky voice, eyes flicking to the mirror.