"Dude, lots of chicks think architects are hot. Think about it. You create something out of nothing. You're like God. There is nobody hotter than God."

—Barney in "How I Met Your Mother".

When I started working, I used to love going on business trips, but over the years novelty and excitement had worn off. I didn't get to actually see the places I went to and being on a tight schedule was exhausting, not to mention inevitable jet lag.

Thankfully, I felt significantly better after a good night's sleep. Having survived a busy day at work, I went straight to JFK to catch an 8 PM flight to Milan. I was almost late because of the traffic; when I came running up to the gate, clutching my purse, my carry-on, and my coat, sweating and cursing my new high-heel leather boots, most passengers had already boarded. On my way through the business class cabin, I saw him sitting by the window in the second row with his laptop open, looking smart as ever. I deliberated whether I should stop and say hi, but then decided against it.

I proceeded to my aisle seat in the coach and made myself comfortable, taking off my goddamn boots and untying my hair. I desperately needed to try and get some sleep—we would arrive in Milan at seven in the morning, local time, and there would be another long and tiring day ahead. On the upside, we would stay at one of the Renaissance chain hotels belonging to our client, Mr. Rossi—a five-star hotel with a swimming pool—and I was intent on indulging myself with its luxuries in the evening. I had even packed my swimsuit.

I woke up surprisingly refreshed. Upon landing, I scanned the Malpensa airport terminal for my companion. He was nowhere to be seen and I almost began to worry, but as I went through the passport control, I noticed his lonely figure in the baggage claim area, looking lost and slightly disheveled.

"Good morning, Mr. Masen," I greeted him.

"Good morning, Ms. Swan." His eyes were tired and I wondered if he had slept at all.

I motioned for him to the sliding doors. "Let's see if we can find a taxi."

We didn't talk in the car. He closed his eyes and I was staring out the window, enjoying the scenery. I'd been here before, but you can never get enough of lush Italian landscapes.

Marco had been waiting for us in the hotel lobby. "Mia Bella!" He threw his arms around me, kissing my both cheeks. Marco was the head of our Italian office; young, ambitious, and gay. I loved him dearly. He asked me in English how my family was doing, then the men exchanged polite greetings and shook hands.

When we had checked into our rooms, there was still more than an hour left before the meeting. After unpacking my carry-on, I decided not to wait until the evening and to go to the swimming pool straight away. The brochure in my room stated there were a hydro massage tub and a sauna, which sounded very promising.

The hotel spa locker room was empty. I changed into my one-piece swimsuit and grabbed the towel, anticipating having the pool all for myself. But on approaching its entrance, I heard splashes and paused. Someone was crossing the pool so fast as if training for the Olympics. When he turned to complete the lap, my breathing altered; I jerked back out of his sight, pressing against the wall behind the door.

I had no idea what business etiquette rule would apply to this situation, but of one thing I was fairly certain: Edward Masen wasn't going to see me in a swimsuit. Nope. And he definitely wasn't going to see me without one, so the sauna was also out of the question this morning.

He continued working out, making even but powerful strokes, obviously enjoying himself. I felt like a creepy voyeur because I couldn't tear my eyes away from his form gliding through the water. After a few more laps, he slowed down, swimming leisurely up to the ladder. As he emerged from the water, I almost gasped. It was that moment when you imagine how someone would look without their clothes on and they appear to exceed your expectations. He had such strong, lean physique; I wanted to run my hands over the taut muscles of his sculpted back—God's gift brought to perfection by exercise.

Instead, I hastily retreated to the locker room and decided to go have breakfast.

Half an hour later when I entered the hotel conference room, sporting a sharp look in my freshly ironed clothes, he was already there. He looked less tired than he had at the airport and even managed a small smile, noticing my arrival. I helped him connect his laptop to a projector and he flipped through his files.

Marco and the client, Mr. Rossi, followed by his two assistants, arrived shortly. Mr. Aro Rossi was a man in his sixties, his expression the one of calm confidence, characteristic for someone who knew what he wanted and had enough money to pay for it. We all took our seats at the long oval meeting table and the presentation commenced.

He started his speech with the building code requirements, showing the calculations to point out that adding more floors would be impossible because of the quality of ground in Venice. As an alternative solution, in his design project he suggested turning the courtyard into an atrium surrounded by glass walls that would not only help increase the useful space but also add the building a modern look without losing the natural light. He was talking with great ease, keeping a relaxed body language and maintaining eye contact. When he was done, Mr. Rossi cleared his throat.

I knew from experience that Q&A part would be the longest and the hardest. But he seemed perfectly comfortable with the inquisition, making his points clear. There was a good reason why he was one of the best—he really knew his job. Soon I realized why Mr. Banner had said he could be difficult—compromise wasn't the word from Edward Masen's book. Every little detail mattered and he refused to give it up, explaining its practical and aesthetic meaning. He was talking so passionately that I found myself digressing from my job ethics code—I was supposed to be emotionless, but I couldn't help it; his ardor was contagious.

The meeting continued after lunch and by the time it was finally over, I was completely exhausted. I went to my room, kicked off my shoes and clothes, and fell onto a Queen-size bed with a groan. My head was pounding but I hadn't had any strength to move into an upright position and reach for the Tylenol in my bag—jet lag had finally gotten in to me.

I must have been out cold because a soft but persistent knocking on the door startled me.

"Coming," I muttered, scrambling down from the bed and slipping on the bathrobe. "Yes?" I yanked the door open and froze. I should have guessed whom I might find casually standing there with his hands in his pants pockets.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you," he said quietly, taking me in.

"It's okay." My hands gripped the ends of my bathrobe belt. "Do you need any help?"

"Err… I haven't been to Milan before. I'd like to take a walk and have dinner somewhere, but I don't know Italian and I'm afraid of getting lost." He gave me an engaging smile, a charmer. "I know it's not a part of your job description, but would you please do me a favor and be my guide tonight? Dinner's on me, of course. If you don't have other plans."

"I... not really..." I felt better now, but only slightly. "But my head is so heavy, and I just..."

"You need some fresh air." His voice was low, his eyes searching mine. "Please."

"Okay." For some reason, I couldn't resist him. "Give me ten minutes."

"I'll be waiting in the lobby."

I closed the door and rubbed my eyes. This was going to be interesting.

I took my time, unhurriedly re-applying my makeup and dressing. My high-heel boots would kill me, but I had no other choice.

When I stepped out of the elevator, I found him sitting on a banquette in the corner, leafing through some magazine. "Mr. Masen."

He looked up and quickly rose. "Please call me Edward. I believe it would be more comfortable if we were on a first name basis, if you don't mind."

"No, I don't. You can call me Isabella. Or Bella—that's what my friends call me, so whichever you prefer," I said.

He gave a slight nod and we went outside. It was really cold; he raised the collar of his coat and put on his leather gloves, and I shivered, wishing I had brought mine.

"I know a good seafood restaurant. We could walk there and then take another route back," I suggested.

"Sounds like a plan."

"This way, then."

The center of Milan is pretty small and I had been there so many times that it was really easy for me to get around. I assumed he would be mostly interested in local architecture, so we started from Piazza del Duomo, went past the famous La Scala theatre, and then continued to the fashion district with its narrow alleys. We didn't talk much, or, rather, I talked, and even though I suspected he must have known this stuff better than I had, he never once interrupted or corrected me.

The restaurant I had taken him to was classy but not overly expensive. I translated every item of the menu for him and after we had made our choices, voiced our order to a waiter.

"Your Italian is pretty impressive," he said as we were served our drinks and left on our own. "How did you learn it so well?"

"My mother is Italian, actually." I took a sip of white wine—it was chilly but filled me with warmth nonetheless. "My grandparents were immigrants from Sicily. I still have several relatives there."

"So you're related to the Mafia?" He grinned, sipping his own wine.

"Oh no, I'm afraid I'm not that interesting. They are just plain farmers and storekeepers. But my parents had practically a Shakespeare love story. Wanna hear it?"

"Sure."

"My grandparents always wanted my mom to marry someone Italian. But when she was eighteen, she had met my father and they fell in love. He was an American, four years older than her, a protestant, a cop, and he lived in Jersey. Absolutely unacceptable." I snorted. "So they tried to forbid her to see him and found another guy."

I paused because the waiter had appeared with our antipasti—a calamari stew for him and oysters on a bed of crushed ice for me. I took one, squeezed some lemon on it, and brought the shell to my lips. He was watching me with sudden curiosity. When I sucked the oyster and its salty liquid into my mouth, his eyes widened and the corner of his lips slightly twitched.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing. Please continue." He took a forkful of his calamari and began to chew it slowly.

"Okay. My mom and my dad ran away and secretly got married. My grandparents were so mad they said they didn't want to see her again." I popped another oyster into my mouth; he frowned, lowering his gaze. "They went to live in my dad's house in Jersey. I was born a year later. And a year and a half after that, they got divorced and Mom took me and returned to the city. My grandparents welcomed us back and we lived together until Mom met her second husband. The funniest thing, he's Italian, so she moved to Rome, and I stayed with my grandparents. I'm a child of Little Italy—that's how I've learned it. End of story."

When I finished, he was drawing patterns on his napkin with his finger, looking either thoughtful or bored, and I cursed myself for being so chatty. Why did I always assume other people would be interested in hearing about my life? What made me think Edward Masen would be?

The waiter brought our main courses and we proceeded to eat in silence. My risotto with cuttlefish was splendid, and I decided it was a good thing I agreed to go out for dinner, after all.

"So, Edward," I said when the pause had lingered too long to be comfortable. "Would you mind telling me something about yourself?"

He lifted his eyes from his plate of linguine with clam sauce. "What would you like to know?"

I shrugged. "Um... how about your work?" It was a safe and politically correct topic.

"Okay." He finished his wine and waved to our waiter to come over. "I work in a small firm called Cullen Architecture... Grazie," he thanked the man for refilling our glasses. "There are only three people besides me. Carlisle Cullen is the principal; he manages all our projects. He specializes in renovations because he has a fondness for older buildings. Actually, he was very excited about this particular project with your company, but his father became ill, so he left shortly and asked me to take over."

"Do you believe in coincidence?" I asked.

"No." He smiled enigmatically. "There's no such thing as coincidence, Isabella. I believe everything serves its purpose. This project has been a very interesting experience to me so far." His thumb was slowly running up and down the stem of his glass. "So that was about Carlisle. Then, there is Esme Cullen, his wife. She's an interior designer. And finally, there is Emmett McCarty. He deals with all aspects of construction work. He's that guy in a hard hat barking orders on a construction site."

I remembered what Alice had told me about him working for her relatives but I didn't know them personally, so I decided not to bring up this connection. "What about you?"

"Basically, I develop design concepts of new buildings. I focus on commercial property. And I've become a full-fledged partner recently, so there are talks and some paperwork." He clearly enjoyed talking about his job.

"Volete un pò di dolce?" our waiter asked.

"Would you like some dessert?" I translated for Edward.

"Yes. A vanilla panna cotta if they have it and a cappuccino."

"Let me tell you something." I put my elbows on the table, resting my chin on my entwined fingers. "People here normally don't have cappuccino in the afternoon. It's a breakfast drink."

He snickered, leaning back in his chair. "Okay. An espresso, then."

"La panna cotta alli vaniglia e due espressi, per favore," I told the waiter.

The wine had made me quite audacious, so I went on. "There is something else I want to tell you. I've seen you before."

He raised his eyebrow. "Have we met? I don't remember that."

"Not really. I said I've seen you. In Starbucks once. I have a good memory for faces. And now I'm really curious about one thing... Why did you say your name was John?"

"You have an excellent memory, Ms. Swan," he said dryly.

"Side effect of my profession, Mr. Masen." I felt I was playing with fire but couldn't help it. "Will you answer me?"

"Yes." He forced a smile, resting his elbows on the table, mirroring my posture. "I just don't like giving my name to random people. And John is quite common, easy to catch; besides, it's a placeholder name. John Smith could be anybody—just an average person. It's a game; we all wear masks sometimes."

"I don't think I do," I said honestly.

"Well, good for you then, Isabella. I don't think the name Jane would suit you. You're anything but average."

"Why, thank you," I muttered, hiding my eyes from his gaze that suddenly became piercing.

We didn't talk over coffee; he paid the check with his gray Amex card and helped me put on my coat.

"Thank you for dinner," I said as we emerged into the dark street and began walking back to the hotel.

"Thank you for being so kind. I don't know what I'd do without you. Probably would have just slept through all my free time in this charming city."

"If you're afraid to get lost, how do you go on vacation?" I blurted without thinking. He surely had someone to be his guide, hadn't he? Someone who looked like she had stepped out of Victoria's Secret catalogue.

"Actually, I don't."

"You don't go on vacation?" I asked incredulously.

"I love my work and I don't need to get away from it, that's all. But last Christmas, I went with the Cullens to a cabin in Denali, Alaska. It's very beautiful there." It seemed to me there was a trace of sadness in his voice. I tried to imagine being stuck in the middle of nowhere for a weekend, let alone a whole week... I'd probably want to scream.

"I love to travel," I confessed. "I've been to many places, but my biggest dream is to visit Rio. I like bright colors and Rio seems like a party that never ends."

"You're so different from what I imagined when your boss told me about you," he suddenly said.

"Am I? What did you imagine—a blonde with D-cup breasts? Nope, that's not me. Sorry for the disappointment." I instantly regretted drinking so much wine—it appeared to have washed away all my professional ethics.

He started laughing. "No, I didn't imagine that. Quite the opposite—someone mousy and boring."

I didn't know what to reply to that, so I said nothing. We took a shorter way back and soon reached our hotel. The silence between us became too loud in the elevator; thankfully it wasn't a long ride. Our rooms were on the same floor; I stepped out first and he followed behind me.

"It's been a long day," I said, fumbling about in my bag for the key card to my room. I swiped it and pushed the handle, turning to wish him a good night. When our eyes met, I flinched. Cool and composed he was no more; I saw a man on fire.

"Isabella... Bella," he whispered in a low strained voice, slowly, uncertainly raising his hand. His cold fingers lightly touched my cheek, making my skin burn. "Tell me to go to my room."

If I were nineteen, I would probably grab his fucking tie, drag him inside, and push him on the bed that was too big for one.

But I was twenty-nine and I knew better than to complicate matters. We were involved in the same work project and I wasn't going to do anything I'd regret later. Don't shit where you eat.

"Go to your room, Edward," I said, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible.

His hand that wasn't touching my face rested on the wall with a slap. He was standing so close I could catch his scent. He smelled of the ocean. So good.

"Please." I moved backwards inside the room, gripping onto the door handle for dear life. "Good night."

"Night." He finally broke his gaze, stepping aside. I pushed the door closed and leaned against it, releasing the breath I was holding.

In the morning, I didn't see him at breakfast. We met later at the hotel check-in counter and he only gave me a slight nod before switching his attention back to the copy of the Financial Times he was reading. We didn't say a word to each other in the taxi and I was glad I wasn't flying business class. It was Friday and I was looking forward to the weekend.

Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts :)

Katie1824, ILY. You know that, right?

I'm on Twitter: LuckyStar815. I rant about hating my work and post pictures of manicured nails.