I gazed through my living room window, toward his front door. In a wine-induced stupor, I stumbled along the razor's edge that separated love from hate. Soon, I was bound to fall. It was anyone's guess on which side I'd land. Braxton Rourke's cell phone number was included in the contacts of Hollywood's A-List actors and actresses, successful musicians, and professional athletes. When a problem arose, Braxton fixed it. Receiving an "I need help with-" text from Selena Gomez, Ryan Gosling-or the police-was a common occurrence. A well-dressed protector who appeared like an actor himself, he was sickeningly handsome, confident, and spoke with an educated authority.I met him while settling the estate of my deceased parents. Enamored by his tailored Italian suit, bravado gait, and undeniable charisma, I suggested the unthinkable. A one-night stand. He agreed, but only because I was leaving in three days. His life, he explained, couldn't include a woman.For the three days that followed, I watched him come and go, knowing we'd never be anything other than two people who shared a magical moment in the front seat of his Range Rover while parked outside a trendy Hollywood diner.Then, the unthinkable happened. A bizarre of series circumstances forced us to be neighbors.The Man I Hate is a stand-alone full-length (90,000 word) novel with no cheating, no sex outside the relationship, no abuse, and an HEA. It depicts a love-hate relationship between two consenting adults and is a steamy contemporary romance novel.