If the sun was out and Joy could see his expression more clearly, she would have said his face drained of color the moment the words left his mouth.

“You weren’t going to tell me.”

He shook his head. “Does that bother you?”

“I’m not sure.” She leaned back in the seat, uncertain how she felt. “Guess that depends on what the lyrics are about. Why me?”

He sighed. “Rob’s Diner. It was motherfucking hot. I was sweaty and starving. Fuming at Jack and my shit car had died. I was about to turn around and head back to LA when I looked up and saw you in the window. I could tell you were laughing at me.”

“You could?” Oops. “Sorry about that.”

“So you admit that you were?” he teased.

“Guilty.” She raised her right hand.

He flashed a smile before his face sobered. “You were a song to me. Fresh, innocent, and a mystery.”

Joy looked at her hands in her lap. “I’m far from innocent.”

“We all have our secrets, Joy. Anyway”—he strummed a chord—“I wanted to unravel yours.”

“Is that why you invited yourself to my table?”

His mouth lifted into a half smile. “That and your phone.”

Joy laughed. “At least you’re honest.” She shifted in her seat to face him. “If you aren’t going to share the lyrics, at least hum when you play.”

He did, and Joy felt herself tumbling for more than his voice and the magic his fingers wove along the steel strings.

A short time later, Dylan put away the guitar, then released the seatback. He draped a blanket over his legs and torso and stared up at the sky. Joy did the same with her seat and blanket. The night was warm and humid, and the air smelled of fertilizer and Bug Off. Dylan inhaled deeply.

“We stink,” he said.

She laughed. “Yeah, we do. It’s nice out here, though. Thanks for arranging it.”

“I had to pull some strings, slip the reservation manager a few bills.”

She laughed some more, and Dylan grinned. “You’re welcome.”

They both looked back up at the sky. The moon had sunk lower and the stars glowed brighter. They lay closer together than a couple in a king-size bed. Were he Mark, Joy would reach under the blanket for his hand. She’d trace the lines on his palm, then lace her fingers with his. It made her think of earlier in the day when Dylan had drawn her against his body while they treaded water and how natural his arms had felt around her. The urge to hold Dylan’s hand now and do so much more with him lured her to the edge of her seat. Would being intimate with him feel natural, too? Not wrong because she’s engaged, but somehow right because the path she walked wasn’t hers?