“What if you could check something off that list?”
“From driving you? Like what? ‘Do something spontaneous’?” She scrunched her face. She didn’t want Dylan to be her spontaneous item.
He shook his head. “No, the other one.”
She frowned. Which one? She went to retrieve the list when Dylan polished off his burger, wiped his hands together, and said, “‘Make a new friend.’”
“With you?” she asked, appalled. “How do you expect me to become friends with you when you’ve been nothing but rude?”
He shrugged, holding up his hands. “Only one way to find out.”
A valid point. She had been wondering how she’d accomplish that item. Hard to make friends on the road while constantly on the move, which meant she had to make the time, or look for opportunities to make friends.
Dylan might be such an opportunity.
The waitress returned with Joy’s bill. She took away Dylan’s empty plate.
Joy patted her hair, then wiped her clammy hands along her skirt. Four and a half hours wasn’t that long, not even a quarter of a day. The road was straight and flat, so the risk of anything going wrong accident-wise, she mused with a nervous twitch of her lips, was minimal. More important, she needed to fulfill Judy’s bucket list. It was the only reason she was making this trip on this particular route. Decision made. Make a new friend would be the line item she checked off that day.
“All right,” Joy said, slapping her credit card on top of her bill, the gesture drawing his attention. “I’ll drive you to Flagstaff.”
Dylan dragged his gaze up from the bill and her card on the table and grinned at her. “Outstanding.” He extended his hand. “I’m Dylan.”
She grasped his hand, hoping he didn’t notice how dry and cool his palm was compared to her damp and sticky one. “Hi, Dylan. I’m Joy.”
CHAPTER 3
BEFORE
Dylan
Ludlow, California, to Flagstaff, Arizona
Dylan quickly cleaned his car of fast-food trash and left a note on the windshield for the tow service company to call his dad’s attorney, Rick Keegan. Let him deal with this heap of rusting metal. Rick was the one who had forced him to take Jack’s car. The beast hadn’t been driven in over a decade. Frankly, Dylan was surprised he’d gotten this far, a whopping three hours out of LA. A miracle indeed.
If Dylan had had his way, he’d instead be driving the classic 911 Porsche he’d purchased off Patrick Monahan. But let’s be real, if he’d had any say about his current situation, he wouldn’t be on this road trip at all. He’d be home in LA writing music. He’d then fly out of LAX next week, not JFK, on the nonstop to Heathrow to meet up with his cousin Chase, a trip they’d had in the works for over a year. What he wouldn’t be doing was slogging from one gig to another as he made his way across the country.
Dylan grabbed his duffel and Gibson guitar from the trunk, grateful not for the first time that he’d learned from years of living on tour buses how to pack light. He then gave the car a once-over, locked up, and didn’t look back. Joy had told him her trunk was full so he put his stuff in the cramped back seat and settled into the passenger seat.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said, closing his door. “I would have been stranded here all day.”
She clipped her seat belt and gave the strap across her lap two solid tugs, then exhaled through pursed lips.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” she said firmly.
He gestured toward the back seat. “I’ve got a guitar in there, not an ax.”
“What?” she asked, startled.
He grinned. “I’m not a murderer. Just a guy who needs a lift.”
Her hands squeezed the steering wheel. “That wasn’t funny.”
He sobered. “Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood. Look, if driving me is going to be a problem, I can find another ride.” He didn’t want to. This girl intrigued him. But more to the point, he’d already lost enough time today. He glanced around the parking lot, even reached for his gear, wondering about his options.
She stopped him, her hand a light touch on his arm. “No, I’ll take you. Just do me a favor. Put on your seat belt.”
Dylan slowly smiled at her, relieved. “That, I can do.” Reaching over his shoulder, he drew the belt across his chest and clipped the latch. “All good?” He arched his brow and she nodded her approval.
“Is your car going to be okay parked there?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Not my problem anymore. It’s Rick’s.”
“Rick?”
“My dad’s attorney. What are you listening to?” He pointed at the iPod she had connected to the car. The last thing he wanted to talk about was Jack’s attorney. Dylan was still salty over the car. It hadn’t even made it a day, and he had nine days of driving left before his flight.
“The McGuire Sisters.” Joy skimmed through the iPod menu.
“The McGuire who?” Dylan had never heard of them, and he knew a lot of bands, more than the average music aficionado.
“Sisters. They were big in the fifties. Judy liked them.”
“Your sister?”
Joy nodded, her free hand slowly moving to check her seat belt latch. Dylan wondered if she was aware of what she did. Doubtful. Her attention was on the iPod in her other hand. Her thumb traced a circle on the face of the device. Albums scrolled down the screen. She had a lot of tunes on that thing. Dylan would love to get his hands on her playlists. He could tell a lot about people from the type of music they listened to, and Joy’s interest in some obscure-to-him sister group as old as his grandparents told him quite a bit about her and her relationship with her sister. She idolized Judy.
“Is that why you’re dressed like that? Because Judy did?”
She looked up from the iPod, her mouth slightly parted in surprise. “You’re direct.”
He grinned. He couldn’t help it. He liked that she called him out.
Joy stopped scrolling. “Here, you might know this one.” She started a track and it took only two notes for Dylan to recognize the tune. He sang along with a verse of “Your Cheating Heart,” surprising himself. He normally didn’t burst into song like that in front of people. But an audience of one inside a car was far less intimidating than a stadium full of raucous fans.
“Wow. You’re good,” she exclaimed with a tentative smile.
“Anyone knows Patsy Cline.”
“No, I meant your voice. You can sing.”
Warmth radiated through his body. Head turned down, he shoveled the hair off his forehead and his lips curved into a closed smile. He liked that she liked his voice. He kind of liked her, as a friend, of course, he thought, eyeing the engagement ring. He’d noticed her the moment his car died during his attempt to park it at Rob’s. Damn thing had to up and choke on him before he could fully pull into the space, leaving the car’s tail sticking out like a big, fat ass.
Dylan had been pissed—at the car, his dad’s attorney, and his dad—then he’d looked up and seen Joy in the window, eating alone, all prim and stuffy with her ponytail and starched outfit that looked like she’d raided the costume room of West Side Story. Who was this woman? What was her story? There had to be a song there, and Dylan wanted to write it. Even if he hadn’t needed to borrow her phone, he would have found a way to meet her. He would have found a way to get to know her.