Too impatient when he doesn’t answer by lunchtime, I grab my bag, toss my afternoon apple inside, and call Catherine on my way to the elevator.

When she answers, I ask in a rush, “Is he in? Can you get me five minutes with him?”

“I’m sorry but he’s out of the office today.”

I exhale and stop at the elevator. “Thanks.” Disappointed, I go back to my seat and think of Sin as I eat my apple.

He didn’t sound worried during the wine tasting when he was questioned about his father. He seemed more concerned over what I thought of the wine than what the businessman whispered.

Even so, his father is dangerous.

As dangerous as Saint himself.

And then a bolt hits me, and I remember hearing him tell someone: “. . . have to be dead to let her fall into his clutches . . .”

It all starts to click with lightning-fast speed in my head.

Oh.

My.

Oh my oh my oh my.

Feeling a spike of adrenaline as I remember the grade-A ASSHOLE Saint’s father is, I surf the internet for information on the man.

I find a few articles about lawsuits from employees, and inevitably, I bump into one of those few video interviews he gave the press, when Saint started M4 while his father kept assuring everyone that he gave his son “no more than three months to bankruptcy.”

“You are such a top-level douche-bag, and I am so glad Saint keeps proving you wrong,” I mutter at the man behind the podium.

Feeling worse and worse the more I see, I start to seriously consider my options and what I’ll do if Noel Saint succeeds in acquiring Edge. Jumping to my inbox, I scan the emails that I received when my article broke out and I wonder if those who reached out still want to interview me. Then I open another search engine and scan the job boards.

“Why are you checking the online ads?”

I lift my head distractedly to spot Valentine peering at my computer screen. “What?” I ask him.

“The ads. Why are you looking at online ads? Are you leaving?”

I glance around to make sure nobody else is hearing, then close my search, determined to make some calls later.

BOX

When I get to my apartment, I’ve got a ton of research for my article but I can’t stop thinking about Noel Saint, Malcolm Saint feeding me wine from his thumb, and my embarrassing dream. After a quick shower I opt to add a mayonnaise treatment to my hair and let it sit under a shower cap for a while when I get a ring from the landlady who lives on the first floor. She says that there’s a package downstairs for me but it’s quite heavy so she’ll have someone bring it up.

The package, when it’s brought to my door by her burly bear of a husband, is a huge case of wine. My favorite wine.

And a note taped to the top in such familiar writing, my world tilts upside down.

Rachel,

I couldn’t keep all these to myself. I’ll never forget the look on your face when you met your new obsession.

M. S.

I reread it several times. I read even the white spaces between the letters. I read the M and the S and everything he wrote.

God. My obsession is YOU.

Exhaling shakily, I bend and heave a little as I carry the box inside, lock the door behind me, then I head to my room and lift my cell phone in trembling hands, press SIN, and call.

I’m wracking my brain for what to say.

It rings three times before I hear him pick up and say, “Saint.”

I literally feel the butterflies in my throat. “Hey, it’s me,” I say, trying to sound casual as I glance at the note in my hand, the want for my own obsession eating me inside as I talk to him on the phone. “So,” I begin, trying to not sound breathless, “some guy I know wants to get me drunk. I have a case of delicious wine right on my doorstep with the address to AA for when I’m done.”

“Bastard.”

I chew the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Help me with this someday?”

The soft and unexpected chuckle on the other end of the line does something to me, and I have to stop pacing and sit down on the edge of my bed. I pluck nervously at the comforter as he tells me, “There are seven days in a week and none of them is someday. Tell me when, Rachel.”

A flush crawls up my cheeks. “I’d hoped this week, but I have to write after I did nothing but imbibe wine this weekend.”

“I have a better idea. Come downstairs.”

“What?”

“Come downstairs,” he repeats.

“You’re passing through the neighborhood?” I ask in disbelief, turning to gape at the window.