“Fuck you.” She shoved his back and he laughed harder. Joy felt her own laugh bubble up. Dylan looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Turn around, funny boy, or I’ll spray your face,” she ordered with a threatening shake.

“Yes, ma’am.” Dylan held out his arms and spread his legs, turning when she asked as she sprayed everything but his face. She was about to douse her palm like he had when he gently placed a hand over hers.

“I’ll do my face so you can keep your hands clean.”

“You sure?” He hadn’t shaved since Albuquerque. She had a strong desire to run her hand along his jawline, let the stubbly growth tickle her palm.

He took the can from her and wiped down his face. “Why did you, though?”

“Skinny-dip?” She told him the story about Judy.

“And if it was your list?” he asked, like he’d asked her before. “What’s something daring you would have done?”

Kiss you.

Joy’s mouth opened and closed. Her eyes dodged his. She looked down at her flip-flops, then over and across the field. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do,” he whispered, his tone suggestive.

Was she that obvious? Her face felt impossibly hot.

“Let’s go back to the car,” she grumbled, already walking in that direction. She heard a soft chuckle behind her.

At the car, she gave him a moist hand wipe. He cleaned his palms, then took out his guitar. Grabbing the instrument’s neck, Dylan sank into the passenger seat, scooted the chair as far back as the track allowed, and stretched his legs. He tuned a couple of strings, strummed a few notes, then played a melody Joy didn’t recognize. He stumbled over a chord. He tried several more chord combinations until it sounded right even to her amateur ear. He repeated the verse, or maybe it was the chorus.

“That’s beautiful,” she said when he finished. “What song is it?”

“Something new I’m dabbling with.”

“Who are you writing it for?” She wondered which lucky artist would hit the charts with that song. It was soulfully gorgeous.

He swung her a glance and started playing again. “No one, really.”

“You’re not going to sell it?”

He shook his head. “Not this one.”

“What’s it about?” He’d strung the chords in such a way that the notes worked their way inside with each verse he repeated. The tune made her think of love and loss and life’s unexpected routes, like the road that had led her to him.

He shook his head, his teeth bright behind a secret smile.

Now she just had to hear the words and know the title. “Tell me,” she begged.

He stopped playing. “What if I said it’s about you?”