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Inside, the similarities end with the Formica counters and red vinyl stools. Instead of bright neon and rock and roll paraphernalia, the unadorned walls are covered in greasy stainless steel panels that are way overdue for a good cleaning.

The place is packed, so we grab the only two open seats at the counter.

“So what’s the plan?” Dash side-eyes me over the dirty menu. “After the last few stops, I’m almost afraid to ask what your mom has in store for us next.”

“Now that you mention it . . .” Smirking, I drag the diary out of my bag and flip to Mom’s entry for the Motor City.

A yellowed photo of Mom standing in the rain in front of a run-down old house with hundreds of brightly colored polka dots painted all over the worn white siding brings a smile to my lips as I skip ahead and read a snippet of the entry to him.

Before we even hit the city limits, Mom told me she had a surprise waiting for me in Detroit. She wouldn’t tell me what it was, but the familiar gleam in her eye has butterflies crashing around my insides like a bunch of drunks at a football game. I can only imagine the crazy plan she has percolating in her mad-scientist’s brain.

“Please don’t tell me your mom rappelled from a skyscraper or boosted a car.” Dash laughs, but the tremble in his voice gives his nerves away.

“Don’t be a baby,” I tease before picking up where I left off.

So much for my surprise. We got to Detroit smack in the middle of one of the coldest Julys on record. Cold and wet. It rained the entire time we were there. Most disappointing stop so far. At least we got to see the Fisher Theater and a few of the cool houses at the Heidelberg Project. Hopefully I don’t end up with pneumonia.

“Well, that’s disappointing.” I close Mom’s diary and shove it into my bag. “No grand theft auto, and they didn’t even jump from a single skyscraper.”

Dash lets out a sigh of relief.

“Don’t pack up your parachute quite yet.” I pluck another laminated menu from behind the napkin holder and skim the selections. “There’s always Chicago.”

He snorts. “Don’t even joke about spreading her ashes from the Sears Tower. I draw the line at Base jumping.”

Although beyond reckless and stupid, the thought had crossed my mind. “I make no promises.”

“You jump off a building, you go alone.” He drags his gaze back to the menu. “That’s all I’m saying.”

I grin. “Chicken.”

After stuffing ourselves with burgers and fries, Dash grabs the check before the waitress has a chance to set it down.

“I can pay for my own food.” I scowl at him. “I may not be rich, but I do have a little money, you know.”

“I know.” He brushes my hand as he slides his credit card onto the counter. “But I want to.”

A minute later, the waitress comes back and eyes the shiny plastic card. With a sour expression, she points to the sign above the register. “Cash. Only.”

Just after sundown, we stroll into the lobby of the Hotel Saint Regis, wearing the same clothes as yesterday—and reeking of campfire, sex, and the woods. The hair on the back of my neck prickles as dozens of eyes bore into my back, reminding me I don’t belong in the fancy establishment. But by the time I’d finished spreading Mom’s ashes at the park across from the Fisher Theater, it was too late to re-create her photo at the Heidelberg Project’s Dotty Wotty House, so Dash suggested we find a nice hotel for the night, and I willingly agreed.

With my head held high, I tuck my tote under my arm and follow Dash to the registration desk, pretending I’m not tracking dirt all over their pristine tile floors. He tosses a wink over his shoulder, and the glimmer in his eyes tells me sleeping isn’t all he has in mind. As long as I get a long, hot shower first, I’m all for that idea. Now that I’ve had a taste of him, all I want is more.

“Your card was declined.” The dark-haired woman behind the desk slides Dash’s card back across the polished stone counter.

“Declined?” Dash rocks back on his heels and rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve been traveling. Maybe the bank flagged my card.”

The desk clerk raises a finely chiseled eyebrow. She glances at each of us in turn, making her chin-length jet-black hair sway from side to side. “Would you like to try another card?”

Dash nods, glancing at me as he pulls a shiny black card from his wallet.

She snatches the plastic from his fingers and shoves it into the card reader.

Several seconds pass before she flashes a pinched smile. “Declined.”

“What?” Dash’s voice echoes through the lobby. “Not possible. Run it again.”

Lifting that thin eyebrow again in a silent challenge, she slides the card into the reader a second time and waits. “Declined.”