“Well thanks, Captain Obvious!” he giggles at me, sarcasm in full swing.

“Ace Thomas!” Ry reprimands our son, but his words have already knocked me on my ass.

I look at him, search his face over and over, studying it like a fucking road map to see if he has any clue, any goddamn inkling what he’s just said to me, but there’s nothing looking back at me but mischievous green eyes and a heart-breaking smile. My spitting image.

“Hey?”

That telephone-sex rasp of a voice pulls me back from flashes of plastic helicopters, superhero Band-aids covering an index finger, and the sound of thwacking. Thoughts I don’t really remember but that seem clear as fucking day somehow. I shake my head and try to clear out the confusion before I look over to her. “Yeah?”

“You okay?” She reaches out, touches my cheek, and stares at me.

And then he starts giggling, breaking the thoughts holding me hostage. He points to the flour she’s now transferred to my own cheek. “What?” I growl in a monster voice, causing the almost six year old to squeal like a little girl as my fingers reach out to tickle him.

“You’re a flour monster too now!” he says between panted breaths as he tries to squirm away from me.

Our tickle fest lasts for a few more seconds as I let him escape, chase him, and then hug him. And he wiggles for a bit more before I feel his arms slide around my neck and hold on tight.

Those tiny arms pack the biggest punch of all because they hold everything I am in their fucking hands. I take a moment and breathe him in—little boy, flour, and a bit of Ry’s vanilla all mixed in one—and close my eyes.

I guess it was in the cards after all.

Fuck me running.

He saved me.

Then. And now.

Just like his mother did.

I feel her hand on my back, feel her lips press against my shoulder, and open my eyes to look at her—my whole fucking alphabet—and smile.

“I think our flour monster here needs to take a quick bath before dinner,” she says.

“Nah.” I reach up to ruffle his hair, flour flying again. “Nothing a cannonball in the pool won’t wash off, right, Ace?”

He shouts out a “Woohoo!” and gives me a high five before running out of the kitchen at full speed. I watch him run and jump into pool, Zander yelping as the splash soaks him.

“He’s got you wrapped around his little finger,” she says as she walks over to the sink to wash the flour from her hands.

“And you don’t?” I ask with a shake of my head as I walk up behind her and slide my arms around her waist, pulling her back into me. And fuck if that ass of hers pressed against my dick doesn’t make me ache to take her, throw her over my shoulder, and haul her upstairs right now.

I press a kiss to that spot beneath her neck, and even after all this time, her body responds instantly to me. Goose bumps appear on her exposed skin, her breath hitches and the fucking sigh that turns me on, as if her hands are wrapping around my dick, falls from her lips. And if her beautiful body doesn’t turn me hard as fucking steel, her responsiveness does without a fucking hesitation.

That and how much I know she loves me, faults and all.

How in the fuck did I get so lucky?

I shake my head as all of the shit that’s happened in my life flashes through my mind. I chuckle, the things that hit me the hardest—that mean the most—all started with a damn storage closet and this defiant-as-fuck woman in my arms who called me to the carpet, grabbed me by the balls, and told me our outcome was non-negotiable.

And fuck me, we’ve still got a lifetime left for her to call all the shots she wants because my balls are still nestled exactly where they’re supposed to be, right in her hands.

“What are you laughing about?” she asks.

“Just thinking of the look on your face when you found out I’d won the auction,” I tell her, the memory clear as fucking day. “You were so pissed.”

“What woman wouldn’t have been when you came off as arrogant as you did?” She snorts out a laugh and then sighs softly.

And the sigh alone makes my dick start to get hard.

“Arrogant? Me? Never,” I tell her.

“Whatever! I know you fixed that auction, Ace.”

And I laugh. God, I love this woman. Ten years later and still feisty as fuck.

“Baby, that answer I’ll hold on to forever,” I tell her, pressing a kiss to the back of her head.

“That’s not possible,” she whispers, looking up to press a kiss to the underside of my jaw, “because you’ll be busy holding on to me.”

Fuckin’ A straight I will.

I squeeze her a little tighter, not wanting to let her go just yet because, fuck, what racer doesn’t want to hold on to their checkered flag a little longer?

At least I know mine waves only for me.

My kryptonite.

My alphabet, motherfucking A to Z.

My fucking Rylee.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Wow! Where do I even begin to start? I was criticized for the length of my acknowledgments for Fueled…so if you were one who thought I was verbose, I suggest you skip this next part.

A little over nine months ago, I pushed publish on Driven. I wasn’t sure what I expected to happen. I just know that both my mom and my husband kept telling me to not get my hopes up. I could lie and tell you I had grand visions that people would love it and my writing career would take off overnight. In reality, I was scared to death. I’d never done something that put me ‘out there’ in the public realm to be scrutinized, criticized, or possibly praised. I hoped people would buy the book about this cocky, self-assured race car driver and a feisty yet believable heroine. Yes, I did use the formulaic story line of good girl, bad-boy, but I hoped that people would pick the book up for that reason alone and discover that I could actually write, spin a tale, draw you into a different world, and make you feel. And people did buy. And people did criticize my thematic plot. But people also fell in love with Rylee and Colton and the boys.

A little over six months ago I pushed publish again on Fueled with different expectations and a determination to prove that I could make this storyline my own. That I could put my own spin on the cursed ‘second book’ of a trilogy and make it stand apart from the other books it was being compared to. I rewrote most of what I already had written: added Colton point of view chapters, incorporated the superheroes, the ‘I race you.’ And when I hit publish, I had a little more confidence and the knowledge that this book could possible make or break my attempt at becoming a ‘real’ author.

I could have never expected what would happen next, could have never imagined that agents would be calling—agents mind you that had rejected my query letters previously—that other authors I admired would be emailing me, that readers wouldn’t be able to get enough of this world and the story I’d created. The only word I can use to even come partially close to the last five months has been surreal. Completely, incredibly surreal.

I set out to write Crashed with my eighty page outline and the pressure of readers to get it written fast. Nothing like motivation, right? But at the same time, how lucky was I that people wanted more? I know that authors work their whole lives for this moment, so no way in hell was I going to take for granted the opportunity I’d been given. I started Crashed and struggled big time on how to make it live up to Fueled. How was I going to leave something that resonated with the readers as loudly as the chant of the superheroes or the I race you did? It was a tough first two months of writing. And then I realized that Crashed didn’t have to live up to that cliffhanger high you got at the end of Fueled because it was a different part of Rylee and Colton’s story. So with that epiphany, things started coming together and forming into what you just read.

I truly hope you enjoyed the conclusion to Rylee and Colton’s story. I am beyond proud of their journey, their healing, where they ended up, and yet feel bittersweet over its conclusion because just as you have grown to love them and the boys, I have too.

On that note, I have had an outpouring of correspondence from readers who have been touched by Colton’s story of abuse and how I wrote about it…whether it be from a personal experience or that of a loved one. I am truly heartbroken by your stories and yet humbled that you feel I depicted the situations and the psychological effects accurately. I wish that you didn’t have the knowledge to tell me that. For those that are surviving…hour by hour, day by day…your strength amazes me. I know the memories will never disappear, but I hope one day soon, like Colton, your 747 can take flight too.

There are some people that helped make this last book what it turned out to be, and I would like to take a moment to mention them. First and foremost, my husband and three young children who have been the ones to make the biggest sacrifice to get you Crashed as quickly as possible. They went from having a mom/wife who was always present, who never forgot anything, and was always ready for everything, to one who often gets lost in her thoughts, has become quite absentminded, and sometimes fights the spontaneous because she wants to finish this chapter while it’s still clear in her head.

Secondly, I have to thank Beta Biggs and Beta Yeti. Crashed came a long way from their initial reaction that Chapter 15 felt like it was still in Chapter 6 (i.e. slow moving) and for that and so many other things, I will forever be grateful. Thanks for pushing me, daring me to make you ‘feel more’, and all of those comments saying “I know you can do better.’ Your input was monumental, the PM’s unforgettable, and the entire process painless (well, sometimes)…and you too, should take some of the credit for this book because you helped make the conclusion of Rylee and Colton’s story a memorable one we can be proud of.