Slashing a billionaire’s tires is a lot harder than it sounds. In my defense, I’m homeless, and he’s the enemy who caused it.

After giving my only housing prospect to a single mom with a toddler, I moved into my Honda. And came up with a plan. Goal one: find a home. Goal two: find the suit responsible. Preferably while doing something illegal to his car.

I’m crouched in a parking garage in a ski mask, stabbing a knife into rubber that will not cooperate when the douche canoe himself steps out, smirks, and has the audacity to ask if I need HELP.

Because the universe is petty, he’s also annoyingly gorgeous.

The only thing worse than being forced to work for him to pay off the damage to his car? He’s not the monster I need him to be. He’s a man who was told he causes nothing but pain. And he’s spent his life — and his fortune — trying to prove that voice wrong.

God help me — I’m falling in love with the broken boy under the billion-dollar suit.

For the first time in his life, he’s falling, too.

But he has no idea that I sleep in my car, hoping no one will hurt me again. Or that he’s the reason the woman he’s falling in love with lost her home. How do you love a man who’ll never forgive himself, the moment he learns what he did?

Standalone. HEA.