He’d seen her earlier that day at the fundraiser, watching as a particularly entitled donor tried to talk down to one of the younger boys from the group home. Rylee hadn't just corrected the man; she had dismantled his ego with a surgical, polite ferocity that left the room stunned.

The roar of the engine was the only thing that could drown out Colton Donavan’s thoughts, but tonight, even the 800-horsepower beast beneath him felt quiet. He pulled the car into his Malibu driveway, the salt air biting at the heat radiating from the hood.

He didn't wait for her to answer. In the silence of the Malibu night, the "reckless bad boy" realized that while he spent his days winning on the track, the only real victory was the one woman who refused to let him win by default.

"I heard about what happened at the gallery," he said, his voice low. "The guys are still talking about how you handled Miller."

"Then I'm not most people." She finally turned, her eyes defiant and bright. "I don't care who he is or how much money he has. If he treats those boys like they're less than, I'm going to say something."

"No," Colton whispered, his eyes dark with the intensity that always seemed to pull her under. "But even if he was, you'd find a way to make him apologize for his wings being too loud. You're the only person I know who isn't afraid of the fire—or me."