This gala is awesome but I have to admit I'm a little bored. It's just the same old thing after every race. I’ve been to a lot of these, and frankly, it’s not that impressive anymore.

Yes, I'm in a prime position of power that a lot of people would love to be in. I'm the head of development for a racing company—make that an underground racing company. Obviously, I oversee much of the research that goes into creating the fastest cars in the world.

I'm a storehouse of insanely valuable information, and most of these billionaire racers and the people that work under them would love to have me on their side.

What can I say? I'm a fucking genius. And I take pride in that. I think of myself as slightly above all these people, even though they have money to spare—more than I do. But I'm used to being smarter than everyone, and maybe that gives me a bit of an ego. So what if it does?

It takes a lot for something to spark my interest. I like to live a fast-paced lifestyle, and I guess that's why am attracted to racing. This underground club is just my scene.

Technically, nobody in my life knows what I do. I haven't exactly filled my family in on the fact that I work for billionaires to race illegally down closed-off New York City streets. But hey, I don't have to explain myself to anybody.

I'm happy with my life and I'm more than happy with my job. There's only one thing I'm not happy with—my love life. Or lack thereof.

I guess you could say I have high standards. But I consider that to be a good thing. The downside is I'm always alone. Rarely does a man reach my level of sophistication.

There's only one man in town that does a thing for me. And I'm basically here to scope him out to see if he arrives.

Braden fucking Masterson.

He's the hottest guy in town and the hottest guy in the racing circuit. I've had my eye on him for a long time. But, I figure I'm one of many. He always has a different girl on his arm every...single...night.

He doesn't have to work for women and I don't blame him. He's a genius himself, developing cutting-edge technology that I'd love to get my hands on.

I've been attracted to this man since the first moment I saw him. I don't think he knows I exist, but that's okay. At least I can watch him at these galas that are otherwise super boring.

I get hit on by a lot of billionaire racers, but never him. I find it to be a compliment that men want to date me, but I never take them up on their offers because, to me, that would be a fucking huge conflict of interest. I’m nothing if not professional.

And then I see him. Braden saunters in looking sexy as hell.

Now that he's here, there's a certain level of excitement permeating the air. He always brings this charisma to every party. He's an amazing storyteller and he just has this natural ability to charm a crowd and be the center of attention.

He’s so unlike me, and maybe that's why I've always been attracted to him. I like to stay on the outskirts of the party and to go relatively unnoticed.

Don't get me wrong, I’m not some wallflower. I have a banging hot body that men can’t resist checking out. And tonight, I'm wearing a black velvet dress that hugs my curves in all the right ways.

My deep brown hair is so dark that it's almost black. It's long enough to hit the center my back. I always get compliments on my green eyes that are so dark they match the deep greens in a well-shaded forest.

I know myself and I know my worth. I know I deserve the best, and for me that only amounts to one person.

Braden.

Sure, we've technically never met. Come to think of it, I'm like all the other women that can't stop staring at him. But my simple crush has turned into an obsession. He's on my mind...like, a lot. More than I’d like him to be.

I watch him now as he makes his way across the room. Everyone's congratulating him because he won tonight.

I like him because he's fucking gorgeous, for one thing. He's a six-foot-five wall of pure muscle, icy blue eyes, and a rugged demeanor. And I've heard amazing things about him in bed. Trust me, women talk.

I move through the crowd and try to mingle while keeping steady eyes on Braden. His hair looks a little bit rumpled tonight like he's just rolled out of bed, and I realize with a sinking feeling that this means he must have been freshly fucked by some girl.

Just the thought of this makes me sick to my stomach. I'm burning up with jealousy and I can’t help but wonder why. I have no attachment to this man. He doesn't even know I exist. But here I am, feeling jealous and envious that another woman probably sucked his cock.

The very thought makes me enraged.

I'm talking to some billionaire's wife—I think her name is Sophia Hughes.

"So, the race tonight was pretty great, wasn't it?" I say casually, trying not to let on how angry I am.

"Jenna, to me they're all the same. At this point, they run all together in my mind. I just don't understand these men and their fast cars."

She's fixing her hair and looking around the room for famous faces to mingle with.

I don't agree with her. For me, life in the fast lane is everything. It's the ultimate turn on to be part of the racing scene. That's why I do what I do, even though it's illegal.

Sometimes, it's hard to have small talk with these wives and girlfriends. They’re less about the racing and more about the men, or should I say the manhood of the men?

I meet an array of gold-diggers all the time, and I can spot one from a mile away. That's not what Sophia is. She's legitimately married to one of the guys. But she's not so into racing, and I just don't understand that.

I don't know what I'd do without the rush of the revving engines and the smell of the fast cars as they tear through the streets. Without that, I wouldn't even be here. I care less for the glitz and glamour of this life than I do for the excitement that comes with racing.

I'm responsible for a lot of what goes on out there, technologically speaking, and it makes me feel good to know that what I'm doing makes a difference, even if it’s just in our own little underground world.

This desire to be around cars probably comes from the fact that I grew up at and around a racetrack. My dad was always tinkering with cars and he took me to every local race that was hosted.

That's where I got a lot of my knowledge and how I also learned how to be around men without throwing myself at their feet. I'm used to guy talk, and you can pretty much say I grew up as a tomboy. I'd rather be working on a car than anything.

But I'm also gorgeous. Most women don’t have this kind of confidence, but I've come to accept that fact about me and be proud of it. Fucking revel in it.

Growing up, that meant that my dad and brothers always had to protect me from men who would take things a little too far.

But now I've grown up, and I know how to protect myself. I'm practically a virgin because I have such high standards—practically. The only thing on my radar right now is Braden and his beautiful…cars, of course.

I watch him as he walks around the room. Women swoon and men are vying to talk to him. He's the best racer. And so, naturally, he's got everyone's attention. I try to ignore him and act disinterested as he comes closer to me.

I want him, but I’m not like the other women. I can play it cool.

I continue mingling with Sophia, who's telling me who and what society people are here.

"That's Mrs. Armstrong; she comes from family money. And her husband, Henry, well, he's not much to look at, but I hear he's very good in bed."

She always knows the best gossip. I'm listening to her intently, even with my eyes following Braden, and finding the conversation rather humorous. I love that Sophia’s a socialite and she can tell me the dirt on everyone.

I listen to her for a while but soon notice that my champagne flute is empty. That’s not a good situation at this gala. I need alcohol to get through the night, especially with Braden never giving me a second glance. Not that I’d give him what he wants—if he wanted it, that is.

I excuse myself from Sophia, and I'm just about to head for the bar when someone appears in front of me with two flutes of champagne.

I look up, and I'm shocked to find his blue eyes staring back at me. It's Braden.

When did he come this way? I’ve had my gaze trained on him all night.

"Would you like a glass?" he offers.

My knees weaken a bit as this is the first time I’m meeting him. At least I'm in a gorgeous gala dress.

"Oh, I'd love a glass. Thank you."

“I'm Braden Masterson," he says. "I don't think I've had the privilege of meeting you."

Suddenly, I feel very intimidated standing before him and I don't know what that's about. Normally, I have the self-confidence of a goddamn supermodel, or at least a NASA scientist. But standing before Braden, I suddenly feel very insignificant, dwarfed by the shadow of his magnificent presence.

"I'm Jenna," I say, offering him my hand.

There's instant chemistry between us. I can feel it, like the air between us is crackling with an electric charge. There's some kind of connection, an awareness.

Maybe it's just because I've had a crush on him for so damn long. Or does he feel it too? I can't be sure. But when we touch, I swear there are fireworks.

He holds my hand a little too long and says, "Yes, Ms. Lockhart, I know exactly who you are."