He laughs loudly, as he pulls the cork out of the wine, pours it in the paper cups, and hands one to me. “To simplicity!” he toasts good-humoredly.

“To simplicity,” I agree, tapping his cup and taking a sip of the sweet, flavorful wine. “Wow, a girl could get used to this,” I admit. When he eyes me with doubt, I continue, “What more could I ask for? Sun, sand, food—”

“A handsome date?” He jokes as he breaks off a piece of bread, layers it with provolone and thin-sliced salami, and hands it to me on a paper napkin. I accept it graciously, my stomach growling. I’ve forgotten how hungry I am.

“Thank you,” I tell him, as I take the food from him. “For the food, for the donation, for Zander…”

“What’s the story there?”

I relay the gist of the story to him, his face remaining impassive at the details. “And today, with you, is the first time he’s purposely interacted with anybody, so thank you. I’m more grateful than you will ever know,” I conclude, looking down sheepishly, a blush spreading across my cheeks as I’m suddenly uncomfortable again at his direct and undivided attention. I take a bite of the makeshift sandwich, and moan appreciatively at the mixture of fresh bread and deli fare. “This is really good!”

He nods in agreement with me. “I’ve been going to that deli forever. It’s definitely better and more my speed than caviar,” he shrugs unapologetically. “So why Corporate Cares?” he asks, his mouth parting slightly as he watches me savor my food.

“So many reasons,” I admit, finishing my bite. “The ability to make a difference, the chance to be part of a breakthrough such as Zander today, or the feeling I get when a child left behind is made to feel like he matters again …” I sigh, not having enough words to express the feelings I have. “There are so many things that I can’t even begin to explain.”

“You are very passionate about it. I admire you for that.” His tone is earnest and sincere.

“Thank you,” I reply, taking another sip of wine, meeting his eye. “You were quite impressive yourself today. Almost as if you knew what to do despite me telling you to leave,” I admit sheepishly. “You were good with Zander.”

“Nah,” he denies grabbing another piece of cheese, folding it in the bread, “I’m not good with kids at all. That’s why I’m never having them,” his statement determined and his expression blank.

I’m taken aback by his comment. “That’s a bold statement for someone so young. I’m sure at some point you’ll change your mind.” I reply, my eyes narrowing as I watch him, wishing I still had the option to make a choice like his.

“Absolutely not,” he states emphatically before averting his eyes from my gaze for the first time since meeting him. I can sense his discomfort with this topic of conversation. An oddity for a man so confident and sure of himself in all other areas of life. He looks out toward the tumultuous ocean and is quiet for a few moments, an unreadable look on his rugged features.

I think that my questioning statement will go unanswered, until he breaks the silence. “Not really,” he says with what I sense is a resigned sadness in his voice. “I’m sure you experience it first hand every day, Rylee. People use kids as pawns in this world. Too many women try to trap men with them and then hate the kid when the man leaves. People foster kids just to get the monthly government stipend. It goes on and on,” he shrugs nonchalantly, belying how affected he is by the hidden truth behind his words. “It happens daily. Kids fucked up and abandoned because of their mother’s selfish choices. I’d never put a child in that kind of position,” he shakes his head emphatically, still refusing to meet my eyes, his gaze following the surfer riding the wave a ways out. “Regardless, I’d probably fuck them up as much as I was as a kid.” He breathes deeply with his last statement and removes his cap with one hand while running his other hand through his hair in what I interpret as agitation.

“What do you mean? I don’t understand,” I falter as I start to ask without thinking. This conversation has unexpectedly gotten heavy quickly.

Annoyance flashes across his face momentarily before I watch him knowingly rein it in. “My past is basic public knowledge,” he states, my furrowed brow showing my confusion. “Fame makes people dig out ugly truths.”

“Sorry,” I say raising my eyebrows, “I don’t make it a habit of researching my dates.” I hide the unease I feel with this conversation in the sarcasm of my tone.

His concentrated green eyes lock onto mine, muscle pulsing in his clenched jaw. “You really should, Rylee,” his steely voice warns. “You just never know who’s dangerous. Who’s going to hurt you when you least expect it.”

I’m taken aback by his sudden comment. Is he warning me about him? Warning me away from him? I’m confused. Pursue me and then push me away? This is the second time today he’s issued a statement like this. What should I make of it?

And what the hell is with his comments about being messed up as a kid? His parents are practically Hollywood royalty. Is he saying that they did something to him? The fixer in me wants to probe but I can tell how unwelcome that prospect is by his reaction.

I cautiously glance over at him, to see his attention turned back toward the surf. It is in this moment I can see the pictures painted by the media of him. Dark and brooding, a little rugged with the dark shadow of hair on his jaw, and an intensity to his eyes that makes you feel as if he’s unapproachable. Unpredictable. The broad shoulders and sexy swagger. The bad boy who is too handsome for his own good mixed with a whole lot of reckless. The rebel women swoon over and swear they could tame—if they had a chance.

And he’s sitting here. With me. It’s mind-boggling, and I’m still unclear as to how this all happened and why it happened to me.

I clear my throat, trying to dispel the awkwardness that has descended on our picnic. “So, how ’bout them Lakers?” I deadpan.

He throws his head back and laughs loudly before turning back to me. All traces of Brooding Colton have been replaced by Relaxed Colton with eyes full of humor and a megawatt smile. “A little heavy?”

I nod, pursing my lips, as I grab for another piece of cheese. Time for a change in topic. “I know it’s an unoriginal question, but what made you get into racing? I mean why hurl yourself around a track at close to two hundred miles an hour for fun?”

He sips from his Dixie cup. “My parents needed a way to channel my teenage rebellion,” he shrugs. “They figured why not give me all the safety equipment to go along with it instead of racing down the street and killing myself or someone else. Lucky for me, they had the means to follow through with it.”

“So you started as a teenager?”

“At eighteen,” he laughs, remembering back.

“What’s so funny?”

“I got a ticket for reckless driving. I was speeding … out of control really … racing some preppy punk.” He glances over at me to see if I have any reaction. I just look at him and raise my eyebrows for him to continue. “I was spared being hauled off to juvie because of my dad’s name. Man, was he pissed. The next day he thought he’d teach me a lesson. Dropped me off at the track with one of the stunt drivers he knew. Thought he’d have the guy drive me around the track at mach ten and scare the shit out of me.”

“Obviously it didn’t work,” I say dryly.

“No. He scared me some, but afterward I asked him if he could show me some of the stunt moves.” He shrugs, a half smirk on his lips as he looks out toward the water. “He finally agreed, let me drive his car around the track a couple of times. For some reason one of his friends had come with him to the track that day. The guy’s name was Beckett. He worked for a local race crew who’d just lost their driver. He asked if I’d ever thought about racing. I laughed at him. First of all, he was my age so how could he be part of a race team, and secondly, how could he watch me take a couple of laps and know that I could drive? When I asked, he said he thought I could handle a car pretty well, and would I like to come back the next day and talk to him some more.”

“Talk about being at the right place at the right moment.” I murmur, happy to learn something about him that I couldn’t read about by looking on the Internet.

“You’re telling me,” he shakes his head. “So I met up with him. Tried out the car on the track, did pretty well and got along with the guys. They asked me to drive the next race. I was decent at it so I kept doing it. Got noticed. Stayed out of trouble,” he grins a mischievous grin at me, raising his eyebrows, “for the most part.”

“And after all this time, you still enjoy it?”

“I’m good at it,” he says.

“That’s not what I asked.”

He chews his food, carefully mulling over my question. “Yes, I suppose so. There’s no other feeling like it. I’m part of a team, and yet it’s just me out there. I have no one to depend on, to blame, but myself if something goes wrong.” I can sense the passion in his voice. The reverence he still has for his sport. “On the track, I can escape the paparazzi, the groupies … my demons. The only fear I have is that which I’ve created for myself, that I can control with a swerve of the wheel or a press of the pedal … not any inflicted on me by someone else.”

The startled look on his face tells me that he has given me more than he expected in an answer. That he’s surprised by his unanticipated honesty with me. I brush his unease of feeling vulnerable over by propping my arms out behind me and raising my face to the sky. “It’s so beautiful here.” I say breathing in the fresh air and digging my toes in the cool sand.