In some ways, the scars left by my personal unraveling since my Princeton days lent a discordant vitality to the revamped version of the design I was ready to present to Darrin and Wolfe. I had arrived at work early and sat alone in the conference room, waiting for the meeting to begin. Like The Picture of Dorian Gray, my current design had creative tarnish, reflecting wild living, both ugly and rich choices, something my work at the university did not have. The tower I’d drawn at Princeton was sleek and elegant, reaching to a fine clean pinnacle. This new building had harsh, almost awkward thrusts. And there were elements of Tad scattered through it: the curl of his lean muscled shoulder, the soaring strength of his back, that mesmerizing tattoo poised for flight.
At its top, one side of
