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Zoe. And the hunk of southern hospitality by the fridge is Ashe Mathison."
    "We've met." Holding her gaze, Dalton took her hand, raising it to his lips.
    "In every bar and dance club I've ever visited."
    "Are you implying my line is not original?" Dalton winked, letting Quinn know he wasn't offended.
    "Rockers don't need to be original," Quinn pointed out with a twitch of her lips. "All you need to do is walk into a room."
    "Oh, she has you there." For the first time, Quinn saw Ryder in Zoe. It was in the smile. "I think I might like you, Quinn."
    "When will you know?"
    Zoe shrugged. "There is no timetable. A day? A week?"
    "Never?" Quinn asked.
    "Are you out to make a name for yourself by screwing us over?"
    "Zoe!" Ryder sent his sister a warning look.
    "It's a fair question." Quinn preferred when things were out in the open instead of stewing under the surface. "The answer is no. However, you don't know me. I don't blame you for your caution."
    "There," she said to her brother. Her tone was almost triumphant. "Quinn doesn't need you to champion her. She can take care of herself. One more point in her favor."
    "Zoe hates wimpy women."
    "I hate fake wimps," Zoe corrected Ashe. "The steel magnolia who pretends to be a shrinking violet is the most dangerous kind of woman. Watch your back when that one enters the room."
    "Well, shit," Ryder grumbled as he checked his phone.
    Dalton looked over his shoulder to check the screen. "What's wrong? Ah. Alden is getting antsy all alone on the bus. Tell him to fuck himself. On second thought, give me the pleasure."
    "Not with my phone." Ryder moved it out of Dalton's reach. "What the hell is Alden's problem lately?"
    Dalton and Ashe exchanged glances. Ryder missed it. Quinn didn't. The list of mysteries was piling up. As much as she loved a good Agatha Christie, Quinn wasn't fond of a story that left her hanging. Ryder and his friends held their secrets close to the vest. That meant she would leave in two weeks with plenty of pictures, but few answers.
    "Ready to hit the road?"
    Without asking permission, Ryder divested Quinn of her camera bag. He slung it over his shoulder before picking up his guitar case.
    Quinn nodded. She followed Zoe from the dressing room. Besides unsolved mysteries, there was something else she would take with her when the job was done. A big, heaping case of sexual frustration. Did the man have to be sexy, charming, smart, and a gentleman?
    Damn, Ryder Hart .
     

CHAPTER FIVE
     
    RYDER HATED TOUR buses. Always had. Always would. It didn't matter that their current transportation was head and shoulders above the bucket of bolts that had taken them from gig to gig in the early days.
    Ryder had been the designated driver. Back then, he couldn't count on Dalton or Ashe to board the bus sober. Zoe was willing to spell him. But the truth was, Ryder didn't like giving up control. Not in his private life. Not on stage. And not behind the wheel.
    It was crazy, but Ryder missed that cramped old bus. Not that he missed the broken heater or bald tires. It was the freedom. When they wanted, he, Zoe, Dalton, and Ashe would take off for sights unknown. They would hustle gigs to make enough money for food and gas—often sleeping in the uncomfortable worn leather seats because a motel was too expensive.
    Then came the first blush of success. And a newer bus. It hadn't been a lot bigger, but it was reliable. As their fame grew, so did the size of their transportation. Three years ago, they purchased their own plane. But for short trips, they drove. Or rather, the man behind the wheel drove. Not Ryder. Instead, it was Boris—originally from the Ukraine. He was a nice guy. And a capable driver. More than capable. Most of the time, Ryder was resigned to letting someone else drive. However, it had started to rain as they were leaving the New York City limits. It made it harder than usual for him to relax.
    "Stop obsessing. Boris hasn't killed us yet."
    Ryder's eyes narrowed at