“I’m not recording those songs. They aren’t that good and you know damn well I’m not a recording artist.”

“Trust me, they’re good. And I never said you have to sing them.”

Dylan’s face hardens. “I’m not selling them.”

“Never said that either. Find someone else to sing. You keep the rights but produce the album.”

“Is this a bait and switch?”

“What do you mean?”

He roughly gestures at the notebook in Chase’s hand. “You renege on New York if I don’t produce those songs?”

Chase looks crushed. “I might play hardball, but I’m not that much of a dick.”

Hands on waist, Dylan prowls the office. He cannot and will not produce those songs. He can’t do that to Joy. He won’t exploit what they had. That’s what putting his feelings out there for the listening public’s pleasure would be. A betrayal of their deal.

Chase flips through the notebook. “What is this to you?” His gaze skims a page, flips to another, roaming over disjointed, unfinished lyrics. He flips more pages, landing on the song.

Dylan sees Chase’s eyes widen when he reads the title. He watches Chase skim the verses and the chorus, and how the realization of what the song is about settles in, especially after the conversation they just had. He’s made the connection.

Chase’s gaze snaps to Dylan. “This song is about her, Joy.”

Dylan presses his mouth tight, shakes his head hard. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Chase abruptly stands. “Don’t lie to me,” he says, coming around his desk to stand before Dylan. “Better yet, stop lying to yourself. I think you love her. Isn’t that what this means?” He fans the paper, lands on the last page, and holds it up for Dylan to see. The note he’d written about Joy, a reminder to himself, a promise they’d made, not that he’d ever forget. It’s seared in his mind. He’d written it while standing in the baggage check-in line at JFK, moments after he parted ways with Joy.

He swallows roughly and looks away.

“Who is she?” Chase asks.

Dylan shakes his head again. “Can’t say.” He’d break their deal.

“Then let me piece it together for you,” Chase says, tapping the corner of the notebook on Dylan’s sternum.

Dylan rubs his chest and scowls. This ought to be interesting.

“Your car dies, you hitch a ride with some girl, you drive cross-country, fall in love, but for whatever reason, you leave her.”

“I didn’t leave her.”

“She left you?”

He shakes his head.

“Then what happened?”

Their deal happened, the second one they made at the end of their trip. But that isn’t what he tells Chase.

“Jack.” The name slips out, surprising them both.