I stole my arch-nemesis Frank’s Bugatti just to chase a thrill and to impress some random chick at a bar, floored it down Sunset Boulevard like I was auditioning for a Fast & Furious sequel, and—surprise, surprise—wrapped it around a pole. Totaled. Million-dollar wreckage. Now I’m sprawled in a hospital bed, sporting a fake amnesia act to dodge the bill, and guess who’s sitting by my side with a smug grin, calling me “baby”? That’s right—Frank, the bastard I’ve hated since business school, looking like he’s enjoying this way too much.
“Morning, sunshine,” he drawls, voice low and teasing. “Sleep well after your little joyride?”
I blink at him, slow and deliberate, channeling my inner soap opera star. “Who… who are you?” My voice cracks just right—Oscar-worthy, if I do say so myself. I even flutter my lashes for effect, ignoring the way my heart’s doing a weird flip at his smirk.
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