Tristan looked like the kind of man even my mother would call smokin’ hot. Eventually, she did. He felt like the kind of man who didn’t just break the rules, but made new ones. He led and it was follow or get out of the way.

Why did a billionaire with a voice like liquid silk and a face like a bad angel take a second look at a girl in no-name jeans,  with a fifteen-dollar haircut and a beat up car she calls her “Eep” because the ‘J’ fell off long ago?