In the back of her mind, she knows she’s being melodramatic. Her reaction has more to do with how unhappy she has been than with Dylan sharing everything he felt for her with everyone but her.

Still, it hurts. It hurts deep in the hole their separation had carved out in her chest.

If she’d known how difficult it would be to not think about him, and how unhappy she’d be with the life she’d chosen, Joy would have done many things differently.

Ironic. She feels the exact same way about the night Judy died. If only she’d done things differently.

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 21

AFTER

Dylan

Dylan didn’t sing the lyrics, and he didn’t play the guitar. His face and name aren’t on the album’s cover. But Joyride’s title track earned him his first two Grammys: Record of the Year for his production work and Song of the Year because he wrote the lyrics and composed the music.

Standing in his Soho loft kitchen in New York, he weighs one of the two six-pound statues that were just delivered. Jack had nine of them and he displayed them proudly in his home recording studio in Malibu. But this one’s different. It’s his name etched on the handmade trophy. Dylan Westfield.

He strokes a thumb over the gilded gramophone made from Grammium, a custom zinc alloy invented solely for the award. Behind him, Chase whistles.

“That’s a thing of beauty,” his cousin says, shouldering his navy Tom Ford jacket over an Ascot Chang shirt. The music label has done well and the man loves his threads. Dylan would rather rock his jeans and graphic tees for the rest of his days, if it’s all the same to him.

“Told you that notebook had Grammy-winning material,” Chase says for the millionth time.

“That you did.” He settles the trophy back into the shipping box.

“Where are you going to put them? Here or your office at the studio?”

“No idea.” He hasn’t given it any thought. Just like he hadn’t given thought to producing Joyride’s tracks until Chase shoved the blue sticker-adorned notebook in his face. The guy wouldn’t relent either. “At the very least, finish the songs. Then decide what you want to do with them.”

Chase was a monkey until Dylan threw up his hands and said, “Enough already!” He polished the lyrics and wrote the music for two reasons only: get Chase off his back and Joy out of his head.

Only one of them worked.

Which meant he had to finish the project to expel his feelings for her once and for all. He saw no other choice but to find a vocal artist and produce the album. Put the project to bed and the notebook back in the drawer. That should have done the trick.