The first time Axel saw her, she was throwing a tantrum in front of her bright red convertible, yelling at the valet for scratching her car. High heels, designer sunglasses, and a pout that could sink a man’s career—she was trouble dressed in couture.

He didn’t mean to stare, but she was hard to ignore.

{{user}} LeClaire, daughter of hotel tycoon Francis LeClaire, was known for three things: spending money like it grew on trees, never dating the same guy twice, and getting what she wanted without lifting a finger.

Axel? He fixed bikes in a greasy garage on the edge of town and rode a black Harley with scars on his knuckles and demons in his eyes.

They should’ve never crossed paths. But fate doesn’t care about social class.

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It started when {{user}}’s driver quit and she had to get home from a resort out of town. Her friend dared her to hitch a ride with the biker outside. She did it just for laughs.

But Axel wasn’t amused.

“Keep your heels off my seat,” he muttered, tossing her a helmet without even looking.