She stood, fully nude, and his breath caught. So beautiful. Her gaze searched the room, landing on her luggage. She grabbed the case and strode to the bathroom with the phone pressed to her ear. “Can this wait until I get home? . . . Calm down, please . . . Okay, I’m listening.”

The bathroom door shut and locked. She’d barely looked at him and he tried not to think what the one glance she’d spared him meant. He was her guilty one-nighter.

She, on the other hand, was the most incredible twenty-four hours of his life.

Dylan rolled onto his stomach and hugged the pillow under his chin. He’d stopped counting the number of times they’d made love, because that had been what they were doing. Making love. At some point during their marathon, what was happening between them had become more than sex to him.

Dylan raked back his hair. Three nights left before she dropped him off at the airport. He wanted more, and he’d almost asked yesterday on the roadside. He hadn’t planned to. The thought just appeared and tripped off his tongue. What if this trip didn’t have to end?

Joy had wanted to know what he was going to say. But her slick skin wrapped in a towel and the hunger in her eyes distracted him. Their conversations last night never veered back to it.

“Fuck.” His heart raced. This was huge for him. But was it really what he wanted? Judging by the goofy grin he wore, yes. Relationships were a complicated mess, and he still feared he’d fuck it up. But he wasn’t ready to let Joy go.

Dylan heard the shower start and blew out a breath, disappointed she hadn’t asked him to join her. He could hear her muffled voice. She was still on the phone.

Time to get moving. He had two nights of gigs in Chicago that he’d pushed back because of the storm, and he should call Rick. Hopefully he hadn’t screwed himself over. Chase would be pissed.

He rolled out of bed, pulled on his shorts, and packed. He tossed their food scraps from his late lunch run to the grocery store yesterday afternoon and straightened the room. He then tried to call Rick from the motel phone. Again, no answer. “Fuck.” He was screwed.

Dylan slammed down the receiver and turned on the news. All clear, according to the meteorologist. Crystal-blue skies as far as the eye could see. The shower still ran. Probably to cover up her conversation with Mark. Dylan slowly shook his head, lips pressed tight. This didn’t bode well for them.

He channel surfed. After an hour passed and the shower stopped, he knocked on the bathroom door.

“You all right?” he asked, his voice thick with concern.