“Sisters. They were big in the fifties. Judy liked them.”

“Your sister?”

Joy nodded, her free hand slowly moving to check her seat belt latch. Dylan wondered if she was aware of what she did. Doubtful. Her attention was on the iPod in her other hand. Her thumb traced a circle on the face of the device. Albums scrolled down the screen. She had a lot of tunes on that thing. Dylan would love to get his hands on her playlists. He could tell a lot about people from the type of music they listened to, and Joy’s interest in some obscure-to-him sister group as old as his grandparents told him quite a bit about her and her relationship with her sister. She idolized Judy.

“Is that why you’re dressed like that? Because Judy did?”

She looked up from the iPod, her mouth slightly parted in surprise. “You’re direct.”

He grinned. He couldn’t help it. He liked that she called him out.

Joy stopped scrolling. “Here, you might know this one.” She started a track and it took only two notes for Dylan to recognize the tune. He sang along with a verse of “Your Cheating Heart,” surprising himself. He normally didn’t burst into song like that in front of people. But an audience of one inside a car was far less intimidating than a stadium full of raucous fans.

“Wow. You’re good,” she exclaimed with a tentative smile.

“Anyone knows Patsy Cline.”

“No, I meant your voice. You can sing.”

Warmth radiated through his body. Head turned down, he shoveled the hair off his forehead and his lips curved into a closed smile. He liked that she liked his voice. He kind of liked her, as a friend, of course, he thought, eyeing the engagement ring. He’d noticed her the moment his car died during his attempt to park it at Rob’s. Damn thing had to up and choke on him before he could fully pull into the space, leaving the car’s tail sticking out like a big, fat ass.

Dylan had been pissed—at the car, his dad’s attorney, and his dad—then he’d looked up and seen Joy in the window, eating alone, all prim and stuffy with her ponytail and starched outfit that looked like she’d raided the costume room of West Side Story. Who was this woman? What was her story? There had to be a song there, and Dylan wanted to write it. Even if he hadn’t needed to borrow her phone, he would have found a way to meet her. He would have found a way to get to know her.

In the meantime, he had made sure she noticed him.