“Good, you’ll fall right back to sleep.”

Joy looked up at the hotel as they approached the door and gawked at the southwestern décor in the lobby. “This hotel’s too nice. I can’t afford to stay here.”

Dylan knew she had a limited budget reserved for roadside motels, so he pretended not to hear her and approached the registration desk. Unlike Joy, he had a reservation. But the hotel didn’t have an extra room. It was fully booked for a conference. Dylan checked in and requested two key cards. He gave one to Joy.

She frowned. “What’s this?”

“The key to your room.”

“Dylan . . . You bought lunch and gas. You can’t keep paying for me.” She tried to give him back the key.

“It’s my room. I had a reservation.”

“We’re sharing?” she asked in a tiny voice.

He’d love to, but no. He shook his head. “Get some sleep. It’s a warm night. I’ll find a spot on the patio and crash there.”

“Dylan . . . I can’t take your room.” Concern laced her tired voice.

“It’s fine. I’ll come up at nine to use the shower. Go.” He nudged her toward the elevators, grateful she didn’t argue. He was exhausted and his resistance was fading with the starlight. He might pull the guilt card and convince her to share the room.

He waited until she got into the elevator and the doors closed. He then turned toward the patio doors with a long, loud sigh. He didn’t want to sleep out there, and the breakfast crowd would wake him before he’d want to be woken. Instead, he found a seating area in the convention wing and stretched out on a long leather couch. He unpacked his Dodgers baseball cap, dropped it on his face to block out the lights, and instantly fell asleep, dreading what he’d have to do in eight hours.

Joy opened the door after his first knock, showered and dressed in pressed lime-green Bermuda shorts and a sleeveless white blouse with a funky collar. He didn’t know how to describe that collar. Scalloped?

Dylan scowled. Joanie Cunningham was back.

Joy smiled radiantly, letting him in. “I’m almost done packing; then I’ll be out of your way.”

“Whatever,” he grumbled, dropping his gear on the floor.

“Rough night?”

Rough day ahead. He lifted his cap, raked back his hair, replaced the cap.

“Dylan . . . I wish you didn’t feel that you had to sleep outside. There’s a couch here. You could have had the bed.”