2.1

He tugs me along behind him as he sets off across the hotel ballroom. I just follow, trailing along behind him, with my clutch under my arm. No protest from me at all – more out of surprise than anything. I don’t exactly get led around by men like this. Especially hot, powerful men. I wouldn’t admit it out loud, but I like the feeling of him gripping my arm and leading me. In fact, as turned on as I am at this moment – and as much champagne as I’ve already had, combined with how hot he is – he could probably take me just about anywhere.

But he doesn’t take me to the elevators, or a hotel room, or anything like that. He takes me up a stairwell to the mezzanine above.

Then he leads me into a little alcove that seems to not go anywhere, a dead end…

…but he pushes three distinct places on the wall, and suddenly a door opens up out of nowhere. No handles, no visible lines in the wall at all.

It’s a full-on secret passageway.

We walk out onto a little colonnade, a ten-foot-long balcony with a lot of pillars that shield us from prying eyes. We’re four stories above street level, so there’s not a lot of prying eyes anyway, but it’s pretty badass.

Add to that the fact that the entire wall behind us is glass. Dark glass. People from the charity ball are walking past, oblivious to our presence. A woman stops and checks her lipstick just feet away from us, and never acts like she sees us.

I realize that the other side of the glass is one of those ceiling-high, twenty-foot-long mirrors.

We can see everybody inside the hotel, but they can’t see us.

“How did you know this was here?” I marvel.

“Because I put it there.”

“Riiiight,” I scoff. “So you’re the architect?”

He grins. “I am.”

“But this is a Grant Carlson ohhhh shit,” I say, putting my hand to my mouth as my eyes bug out.

Let me explain.

Grant Carlson is the hottest architect on the scene today. Think Frank Gehry levels of acclaim. Actually, no, think more like Frank Lloyd Wright.

Except that Grant Carlson is apparently a hot, late-20’s piece of man candy.

I didn’t know. I’d heard his name before on NPR and what have you. The Modern Museum of Art is moving half its collection to the new location designed by Grant Carlson. The Spanish Government just commissioned Grant Carlson for a new national museum in Barcelona. Grant Carlson just unveiled designs for the new Wall Street stock exchange building.

But I didn’t know what he looks like. Come on – how many of you know what Frank Gehry looks like? Or Frank Lloyd Wright, for that matter?

Grant Carlson’s work stood in for him. Giant, towering buildings that combined both stately beauty and playful whimsy. Steel, glass, marble, granite – those were the things he wanted displayed to the world. Not his photograph.

After seeing him, I kind of understand. One look at him, and most women would never care about his buildings.

One other interesting fact about Grant Carlson: he’s a billionaire.

He’s not only the most celebrated architect alive, he’s part owner of a multi-national construction business started by his family. His buildings are so unbelievable because he controls every facet of their construction, from the blueprints all the way to the molding in the individual rooms.

And he never, ever compromises. Quality above all else.

Well, except for in person. Then I guess it’s hotness above all else.

I stand there, suddenly feeling very shy and very vulnerable.

He looks down at me and grins. “So I guess you’ve heard of me.”

I nod. I can’t speak.

“I shouldn’t have told you that,” he sighs. “Everybody always clams up.”

“Well, if you spring it on them like that, I can understand why.”

“You’re holding your own pretty well,” he says, and moves closer. Close enough that I can feel the warmth from his body against the cool night air.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god

I don’t feel like I’m holding my own at all. But I’m not about to admit that.

“So you put this here?” I ask, trying to get the attention off me and back onto something, anything else. “This secret passageway?”

“This is just one of a dozen in this particular building.”

“Really?”

“I put them in every single work I do, from houses to skyscrapers.”

“Why?”

“Because I can.” He grins. “I was fascinated with secret passageways from the time I was a kid. I went to this place called the Winchester House when I was five. You ever heard of it?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“It’s this Victorian mansion in San Jose, built by this eccentric old woman who was sure ghosts were trying to kill her. So she added onto the house over the years, with tons of secret rooms and stairways that went nowhere, all to confuse and trap the ghosts. It’s my favorite place in the world. That was the moment I knew I wanted to be an architect. I didn’t even know the word for it when I was five – but I wanted to build houses with secret passages. And now that’s what I do.”

I laugh. “That’s really cool.”

“Plus, secret passageways have the added benefit of moments like this,” he says, as he smiles and stares into my eyes.

My internal heat level is rising fast. His eyes… they’re liquid brown. Piercing… sexy…

I’m getting too turned on.

I’m a little afraid of what might happen.

Even though I want it to happen.

My heart is beating so fast…

“I… I think we should go back inside…”

“You think we should go back inside?” he repeats softly, as he leans in towards me, his face only inches away from mine.

He’s so tall, I have to raise my head to look at him. Which is the perfect position for kissing…

And he’s so close. I can feel the heat from his face… or maybe that’s the heat from mine, because I know I’m blushing again.

“…y-yes… we should go inside…”

“Okay,” he whispers, just before he moves in all the way and kisses me.