The rules were simple.
Don't touch my best friend's little sister.
I've followed that rule for years. Through every family dinner, every late night at a bar, every time she looked at me like she was deciding whether to light me on fire or laugh.
Then I blew out my shoulder, lost my spot on the circuit, and somehow ended up riding shotgun on her summer tour. Broke, banned from competing, and running out of options fast.
I told myself I could handle it.
Eight weeks on the road. Two people. One truck.
I was wrong.
Addie isn't just my friend's little sister anymore. She's sharp, relentless and she rides like she's got something to prove - because she does. She doesn't need saving. Doesn't want it. And she sure as hell doesn't need me watching her the way I've been watching her.
But somewhere between Montana and Wyoming, between the late nights and the long miles and the way she laughs when she thinks nobody's listening, the rules stopped making sense.
I've done a lot of stupid things in my life.
Falling for my best friend's sister might be the one I can't come back from.