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

different picture of Ansel. Lord knows he was photogenic. Naturally tall for a driver, he was muscular and lean. He was sun baked and whiskey cured. His famous baby blue eyes were far too pretty for a man, as were those sensual lips. The rest of him though, was hard and craggy.
                  He was one hundred and fifty percent man.
                  Not to mention a major pain in the ass.
                  Denise didn't usually curse but her new assignment was not off to a good start. Contrary to popular belief, not all press was good press. Anything illegal would create issues for the brand. It was hard enough to get actual liquor advertising these days as it was.
                  She knew she was going to have to call her new show pony at some point and have a talk with him. She rolled out of bed and put on a pot of coffee. There went the start of her plan to catch up on sleep this weekend.
                  There was no way she was going back to bed now.
                  Denise pulled on her running shorts and stretched while her coffee brewed. Then she texted Sasha to cancel lunch. She saw her best friend maybe once a month but they were in constant contact otherwise. Still, she knew Sasha would not be pleased that she was canceling again.
                  But it couldn't be helped- she had to work. If Sasha gave her a hard time, she could always blame Ansel. It was his fault after all.
                  She poured some coffee into a travel mug and hit the streets of Los Angeles.
     
     
     
     
    {}{}{}{}{}
     
     
     
     
                  Ansel groaned, shielding his eyes from the harsh fluorescent lights above. His head ached, his back ached, hell, his whole body ached. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, being hungover, but this one was particularly bad.
                  Plus whatever he was lying on was hard as a rock.
                  And the strong smell of disinfectant was making his stomach do back flips.              He squinted, looking around the square room he was in. Cement, industrial lighting, a toilet and bars. It was all too familiar.
                  Damn it all to hell.
                  He was in jail.
                  Again.
                  The drunk tank from the looks of the cell's other inhabitants.
                  He sat up, resting his head in his hands.
                  "Ansel Philips?"
                  A young cop was standing on the other side of the bars. Ansel lifted his hand weakly, too woozy to do anything else. The cop waved him over, doing a double take as Ansel staggered toward the bars.
                  "Wait a minute- are you the Ansel Philips?"
                  "None other."
                  "No shit! My kid's a huge fan. Can you autograph something for me."
                  "If you get me a cup of coffee, I will sign anything you want."
                  The cop laughed.
                  "Sure, you got it. Oh and your girlfriend is posting bail now. Whooo-eeee! You are a lucky man my friend."
                  "Huh? Girlfriend? What girlfriend?"
                  But the cop was gone. Hopefully bringing back an industrial sized coffee.
                  One thing he knew for sure was that whoever was bailing him out was definitely not his girlfriend.
                  Ansel did not believe in relationships. He loved women. Often. Just not for very long.
                  The cop was back with the coffee in a few minutes. He'd also found a magazine with Ansel on the cover. He signed it, silently thanking his lucky stars that it was a racing mag and not another damn tabloid. He hated those garbage mags. They always upset his Grannie.
                  "So,