She stares harder at the highway, willing him to drive into the parking lot, to pull into the same space he had before. She imagines him getting out of the car and turning to the window to see if she’s there. She is. She waves. He smiles, his gorgeous, heart-stopping smile.

“Anything else I can get you, miss?”

The waitress’s question rips Joy from her reverie. She blinks up at the woman.

“Everything all right, honey?” the waitress asks.

“Yes,” she whispers, acknowledging that she’s waited long enough. Time to get up and go home. She needs to move on.

“May I have the check, please?”

“Sure thing.” The waitress tears the top sheet off her pad and slaps it on the table.

Joy collects her purse, leaving cash behind, and rises to leave. A burst of sunlight reflected on glass catches her eye. She looks out the window and slowly settles back into the booth. A silver Maserati turns into the lot and pulls into the empty space beside Joy’s Mini Cooper. Brake lights flash, then a man unfolds from the car. His gaze swings left to the highway behind him, then right to the diner before he makes his way across the parking lot. He looks like a movie star with his reflective shades and tousled hair. He walks like a rock star and is dressed like he can drop a black card on the counter and buy the diner in one transaction.

He’s here. He came.

A roller coaster of emotions slices through her. Relief, wonder, happiness. A bright, wide grin splits her face. All her regrets that she hadn’t risked a chance with him a decade ago recede. He enters the restaurant and she can’t stop smiling. She rises, ready to run to him, but he removes his shades and looks her way. She freezes, everything hot and electric inside her chilling.

She slowly eases back onto the vinyl bench and stares. There’s something about him that isn’t right. His hair is lighter and jaw squarer than she recalls. He’s carrying the blue spiral-bound notebook adorned with Route 66 stickers. That, she remembers. He wrote Joyride’s original lyrics in that notebook. But something flashes on his hand, startling her. A wedding band. He’s married?

His gaze hooks onto Joy’s and holds for a few beats. A decision crosses his face and he approaches her table. A frown mars his brow. His hand lifts and swoops through his hair, and Joy softly gasps. The gesture is so familiar, so Dylan. But this man isn’t Dylan.

He stops beside her table. “Are you Joy?”

Her throat goes dry. Perspiration dampens her pits and the underside of her breasts. “Yes,” she says.

His expression turns incredulous, as if he can’t believe she’s here, waiting.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Chase Westfield, Dylan’s cousin. May I sit down?”