Zero To Sixty (BWWM, Sports, Billionaire) by Tamara Adams

One
     
     
                  Beep
                  Beep
                  BEEP BEEP BEEP
                  Denise rolled over and stared at the clock. It was six AM on Saturday. She didn't set an alarm on Saturday. In fact, her phone volume was off. Except for one thing…
                  Oh no.
                  She groaned and reached for her phone.
                  It was on the new side table in her newly decorated room in her brand new house. Well, technically it was a townhouse condo on the edge of Beverly Hills. But it was a very nice townhouse condo.
                  And it was hers.
                  Every penny she'd ever earned was in this place and she loved it. Even if it was a little bland. She looked around, wondering what had possessed her to decorate with so much beige. Where were the purples and peaches she loved so much as a child?
                  She'd outgrown them apparently.
                  Besides, it's not like she was ever home. She'd been out of business school for exactly eighteen months, and in that time she'd climbed the corporate ladder steadily. Mostly due to extreme diligence and hard work.
                  Luck had nothing to do with it.
                  On Friday she'd been given a new assignment. Her first solo account. One of the last things she'd done for the weekend was set up an alert on her phone. It was to ping her every time her new assignment made an appearance in the press.
                  Ansel Philips.
                  Her phone was beeping madly.
                  She pushed her eye mask up and over her head, rolling to her stomach. She was so tired that her eyes refused to adjust immediately. She squinted at her phone, seeing a ticker tape of Ansel Philips news blasts.
                  Literally every gossip site, every channel, every news outlet had the story.
                  Apparently the spokesperson for her new account, her first solo account, had been busy last night.
                  Very, very busy.
                  Why was she not surprised?
                  Annoyed, yes. But not surprised. Not even a little.
                  Denise had studied the folder on Ansel Philips last night after cooking herself a light dinner. It was a thick folder. More like a phone book really. But fascinating. She'd read it until she was finished, well after midnight. Born dirt poor in the black hills of West Virginia and orphaned young, Ansel was raised by his grandmother who'd apparently been tough as nails. The woman had single handedly dug out an old mine on their property and found coal.
                  With the modest fortune she'd found, she'd funded her only grandson's dream: to race cars. Ansel had been fifteen when he'd started, entering local races with a forged ID and a car cobbled together with discards found at junk yards. But he'd had something.
                  A spark.
                  She snorted.
                  That was putting it mildly.
                  The man oozed charisma. He was dynamic. Arrogant. Gorgeous.
                  From the beginning, Ansel had attracted attention. Not just because he could drive, and God knows he could. But because of his bad boy antics, drinking, smoking, fighting, gambling and womanizing. And that was only the stuff that was printable. Rumors had it, he was up to far more.
                  All this made him the perfect spokesman for Black House Whiskey. He practically screamed All American Bad Ass. Actually, that wasn't a bad tag line. She'd have to remember to jot that down.
                  After she'd had her coffee.
                  She sighed and thumbed through the articles. Each one had a