His gaze traveled over her. A strand of pearls adorned her neck. Where had those come from? He hadn’t noticed them this morning. She’d also polished her nails, a pale pink. He didn’t like it. He preferred them natural.

His eyes tracked up her hand, past the gaudy engagement ring to something shiny on her wrist. A sterling silver wire bracelet with a single turquoise stone. That was new, and it totally suited her, or the woman he visualized living under the shellacked exterior she projected. He dug that bracelet. He hated her getup.

“Why do you dress like that?” He’d asked before but never got a straight answer.

Joy looked up from the menu, startled. “Like what?”

“June Cleaver, Joanie Cunningham . . . Judy?”

Joy blinked. Her mouth parted as if she was about to tell him off, because he knew he was rude, but the waitress stopped at their table to take their order.

“Cheeseburger, fries, and a Cherry Coke,” Joy requested, her voice small. He was quashing her chipperness but he couldn’t stop.

“Is that really what you want, or what Judy would have ordered?”

Joy warily glanced at him, handing her menu to the waitress. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“And you, sir?” the waitress asked Dylan. Her name tag read Bonnie. Bubbly-bouncing-Bonnie who didn’t show an ounce of bubbly personality. She glared at him. Well, hell. He didn’t give a shit what Bonnie thought about him. He’d never see her again after today.

“Coffee. Black.”

He flipped up the menu, handing it off to Bonnie, his hard gaze locked on Joy, daring her to make eye contact. She wouldn’t. She traced her pink nail along the table edge. She toyed with the silver bracelet and flat-out ignored him.

He didn’t like being ignored.

“It’s obvious you hate your clothes. Why do you wear them?” He’d seen her pull at the blouse and tug at her shorts. Both were cut from stiff, starchy fabric nobody in their right mind would wear in August while driving through the desert. Why did she? Was it some sort of punishment?

Joy’s fingers fluttered to the scalloped collar. “I like my clothes.”

“Are they yours, or Judy’s?”

She sat up straighter. “I don’t care what you think. I barely know you, and it’s none of your business. This is how I’m dressing on this trip, so get over it.”

Bonnie returned with their drinks. She slammed down Dylan’s mug. Coffee spilled and she didn’t wipe it up. She gently set Joy’s plastic cup of soda on a cocktail napkin. “There you go, dear,” she said before shooting a Breaking Bad death glare Dylan’s way.

Ouch. She’d pulled a Walter White on him.

Dylan chugged half the mug of coffee before Joy had unwrapped her straw and taken her first sip.