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.