He might have flexed his deltoids more than necessary while he worked on his car. He might have tugged his jeans a little lower on his hips than was decent. If it hadn’t made his posing more obvious, he would have removed his shirt, because it was hotter than a mother today. But what he had done worked. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him. To his amazement, and absolute luck, she’d agreed to give him a ride. Now he had her all to himself for the next five hours, and he intended to use those hours to learn all he could about her. She was his new song, and by the end of the night, he hoped the first verse would be pinging through his brain.

But first he had to have her backstory.

“How did Judy die?” Dylan asked at the same time Joy shifted the car into reverse. She put it back into park.

“Car accident. Eight years ago,” she answered with a slight edge.

“I’m sorry. Were you close?”

She watched him for a short bit, her thumbnail flicking against her index fingernail when she eventually sighed. “We were four and a half years apart. She died the summer I turned fourteen. I was thirteen at the time.” Joy squeezed the gearshift.

“What was she like?”

She inhaled sharply. “You’re going to need to find another ride to Flagstaff if you keep asking questions about my sister.”

Dylan didn’t want to do that. He’d lost enough time today.

Joy sat still, waiting for him to figure out what he’d do. Dylan noticed her tight grip on the steering wheel, the firm set of her jaw and rigid posture. Interesting. She dressed like her sister, listened to her sister’s favorite music, and had her sister’s bucket list in her purse. Yet she didn’t want to talk about her.

Maybe she didn’t want to talk about her with him. He wasn’t a friend . . . yet. He’d have to work on that. He held up a finger. “One more question. Do you know how to drive?”

She looked at him from under her mile-long lashes. “Seriously?”

“It’s a valid question. My life is in your hands.”

Her face paled. “I’ve been driving since I was eight.”

His expression turned to one of fascination. “I don’t know if I should be scared, jealous, or impressed.”

“All of the above,” she said soberly. “I spent a lot of time on my grandfather’s farm driving tractors and his old truck. Any other questions?”

Dylan made a show of zipping his lips and tossing the key.

“All right, then.” She exited the parking lot and merged onto the highway, heading east toward Flagstaff.

“Sorry about earlier,” she apologized about a quarter mile up the highway. “It’s just . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t like talking about her.”