“I’m not passing; I’m in the neighborhood for you.”

Crossing the room, I pluck the curtain aside and see a shiny crimson car pulling over in front of my building. His big-shit new car.

“Come down,” he says, and then he cuts off. I drop the curtain and text him: Give me 5.

Tossing my phone on my bed, I hurry to the bathroom and yank off my shower cap and stare at my mayonnaise hair. Oh fuck, Rachel, why did you do a hair treatment today?!

Gina leans against the doorjamb and asks drolly from the door, “Shall I tell him you’ve got icky white stuff in your hair and to come back?”

Trembling, I open the faucet and stick my head under the running water, hurrying to wash the mayonnaise out of my hair.

Once done, I drape a towel over me and run it quickly up and down, trying to dry it as much as I can. Sin is downstairs. Sin is in the neighborhood. Sin came to see me.

Finally I toss my hair back, run a brush over it, tie it into a bun, slip into a pair of navy blue leggings, a clean gray T shirt, my easy slip-on Uggs, then rush outside.

Gravity.

Gravity is the force of attraction that exists between any two objects, any two masses, any two bodies. Gravity isn’t just an attraction between an object above being pulled toward the gravitational center of the earth. Gravity is an attraction that exists between all objects, in all of the universe—the closer they are, the stronger the pull.

There has never been such gravity as that which I feel to an object parallel to me. This man.

My most powerful gravitational pull—the one that makes me feel like I’m falling even when I’m standing still.

Square jaw, that edible mouth, broad, big, tall and dressed in a suit, surrounded by the raw force of a determination that whirls around his body.

We’re inside his car, parked outside my building. Quiet, toe-curlingly beautiful, noble, bold, controlled, and relentless, Saint is once again looking for me, as relentless as the M4’s sole proprietor and CEO that I know, and as uncatchable as a storm. A womanizer. A benefactor. A champion of his causes. An enigma.

Everybody dotes on him. Women make fools of themselves over and over in an attempt to attract his eye. He inspires lust, love, and everything in between.

Even obsession.

Even . . . from me.

He was standing by his car when I came out.

“Hey,” I said, feeling myself blush. “This is what I do now in my free time.” I pointed at my wet hair in its bun.

He stared at me and opened the gullwing door to his stunning car. “I was hoping we could have that talk now,” he said.

Now we’re in his car and he’s settled behind the wheel and I’m nervous.

Everyone wants something from him. He’s got a warrior’s instinct and is used to being asked for things. He rarely says no.

He . . . takes care of you.

He took care of me once and as I look at him in the dark with the streetlight casting shadows on his chiseled face, I remember how independent I wanted to be but how easily he overpowered me.

I remember the first time I saw him vividly. His slow, easy-spreading smile that caused a fire to churn in the pit of my belly. He’s a man whose fingers once spent hours memorizing the curves of my shoulders and back as we kissed.

The sharp edges of loss haven’t been dulled. Being in his car only heightens the ache.

I remember every moment with him, like a treasure and like a punishment.

He’s quiet, physical, and thrilling. He’s also tender, consuming my world with incredible power and at hurricane speed.

I’ve never wanted anyone like this, and had never waited for someone’s call. Wanted to see someone. I told him about the hole, about sometimes feeling like you wanted something to fill it. It has never been as big as it is now that I see him and hopelessly fear that I cannot have him.

But I want him nonetheless.

I guess reason has nothing to do with it anymore.

“Are you leaving Edge?” he asks me.

It’s almost unbearable, the intimacy of his voice in the close confines of the car.

One arm draped over the wheel, he shifts sideways to look at me even more directly. “Why are you leaving Edge? It’s doing better. Isn’t it? After that piece you wrote?”

“You mean . . . the love letter?” I ask, then lower my gaze. “That’s what my boss calls it.”

His voice lowers. “Yeah, the love letter.” A beat passes, charged with tension. “Why are you leaving?”

“Because.”

He curls his thumb and forefinger around my chin and the contact electrifies me. I jolt a little and lean back against the seat when he crowds me in, studying me. “You’re not coming to M4?”