The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood Book 3)

by Nikki Sloane

  ONE

  A loud, insistent banging came from my front door, caused by an angry fist, and I froze.

  First of all, it was dark and pouring rain outside. There wasn’t an overhang or porch to cover whoever was knocking on my door. And second . . . what the actual fuck? I lived in the guest quarters behind my parents’ house, and their property was surrounded by a fence.

  So, I didn’t get visitors. Anyone coming here would go to the main house first.

  It meant the owner of the fist pounding on my door in the dead of night—and during a storm—had come onto my family’s property without permission.

  Every hair on my body stood at attention with alarm.

  “Lilith?” a male voice asked, sounding urgent. “Are you home? It’s Clay Crandall from next door. I need your help.”

  Like the snap of a pair of fingers, the tension in my body shifted and I couldn’t get my door open fast enough.

  He stood on the concrete path with his head tipped down to keep the worst of the rain from falling into his eyes. He was drenched, and the water molded his clothes to his body, showing off every perfect inch of him. Clay was in his late thirties, meaning he was at least ten years older than I was . . . and exactly the type of guy I preferred.

  Jesus, he was so fucking hot. Even with anxiety stricken across his face.

  I stood stock-still with one hand on the doorknob, ignoring the rain splattering my legs, and gawked at him. Behind his dark-rimmed glasses, his eyes were the same shade of brown his hair was when wet, as it currently was. He was fit and toned, and had a body made for sex. The kind I was sure could turn a smart girl like me stupid.

  Which it had, because I hadn’t invited him in to get out of the rain. I stepped back and gestured inside. “Come on in. What’s going on?”

  He shook his head. “No, I—” He struggled to find the words. “You’re a veterinarian, right?”

  “No, I’m a technician.” It wasn’t the first time someone had made that assumption. I was more like a nurse, who assisted the doctors at the animal hospital where I worked.

  But this answer must have been close enough because he nodded and backed up, urging me to follow him out into the storm. “I need your help . . . at my house.”

  There was something odd about the way he’d said it. His voice was full of discomfort, like he was reluctant. Or perhaps he was shy.

  I’d only had one conversation with my next-door neighbor since he’d moved in more than a year ago. Once he put up his curtains, I never saw him again. The guy was rarely home, and when he was, he stayed hidden. The rest of our neighbors were friendly and chatty, or nosy, or all of the above. Everyone knew each other’s business. But Clay?

  He was a ghost.

  No one came by to see him. There weren’t visiting cars parked in his driveway or the street beside his house, not even on holidays. A lawn service took care of his yard.

  My mother joked he was probably a serial killer.

  No way. He was too good looking for me to believe that, even when I knew serial killers could be attractive.

  I put my hand up to shield the rain from my face. It was a feeble attempt to save my eye makeup as I tried to dart out into the storm, but his hand came up to stop me.

  “Wait,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  His gaze dropped to my feet. My open-toe pumps had a summery floral print and four-inch heels. I’d bought them off-season last year for a total steal.

  His face took a dubious cast. “Don’t you want to change shoes?”

  “No, I’m good.” Because I loved my shoes. Stilettos, or sandals, or any kind of sexy heels . . . My closet was full of them, and I took every opportunity I could to wear them.

  We didn’t talk as we hurried across the path that led to the gate in the fence, and my shoes were slick on the stones. The rain was cold as it pelted me, soaking my ivory shirt and squishing between my toes, but I ignored it and did my best to keep up with Clay’s fast clip.

  The exterior lights surrounding his large house were on, making raindrops glint, and his garage door was open. We went through it, passing by his Ford pickup truck and up the two steps to the door that led into his home.

  I stood in the side entryway, dripping on the tile floor, waiting for him to explain, but he didn’t. Instead, Clay’s gaze bounced around frantically as if he wasn’t sure where the emergency was.

  “There’s a cat in here somewhere,” he said.

  I blinked. “Um, okay . . .?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, and his expression was full of embarrassment. At least, I assumed it was, based off his tone. I was totally distracted by the flex of his bicep peeking out from under his shirt sleeve.

  He said it quietly. “I think I hurt it.”

  Everything in me went still, and my voice flash-froze into ice. “What?”

  “It was an accident.” His eyes filled with remorse. “A few weeks ago, this cat randomly showed up at my place. Maybe you’ve seen it? A black and white one?”

  I hadn’t. He peered at me, waiting for a response, but my stone-cold demeanor didn’t change, and it forced him to continue.

  “It keeps trying to get into my house. Every time I open a door, the cat’s there, like he’s been lying in wait. It rushes for the door.” He hesitated. “When I got home, I didn’t realize he’d followed me into the garage.”

  “Oh, no.” I tensed. “You hit him with your car?”

  Thankfully, he shook his head. “I’d just come in when I saw the cat charging for the steps, so I tried to shut the door before he made it in.” Clay swallowed a breath. “I . . . wasn’t fast enough. His tail got caught in it, and—shit—the howl he made was awful.”

  Dread and urgency descended on me. “Where is he now?”

  Clay cast a hand toward the entryway and the house beyond. “I’ve been looking everywhere for at least twenty minutes.”

  My gaze left his and scoured the space, searching. “Hurt animals like to hide.” I took two steps toward the living room before pausing. I should probably ask if he were cool with it before I began wandering around his house. “Is it okay if I—”

  He nodded quickly. “Please.” He took his glasses off and used the hem of his shirt to clean the raindrops from his lenses. “I’ll take the upstairs. You search this floor?”

  “Yeah,” I answered. With the game plan sorted out, his feet carried him swiftly across the hardwood and toward the staircase, leaving me to begin my self-guided tour of his place.

  His living room was nice, with a plush rug in the center and a matching couch and loveseat, but I didn’t find a wounded cat hiding beneath them. If I’d had more time, I might have lingered by the built-in bookcases and examined the pictures displayed there, but my focus was elsewhere right now.

  My goal was temporarily derailed when I turned the corner and stepped into the kitchen. Or what was supposed to be the kitchen, because the space was torn apart. An island of cabinets was perched in the center of the room, but there was no countertop. What looked like backsplash samples were taped to the wall under the space where a range hood was probably going to be installed. He was renovating the kitchen, but how come I’d never noticed a construction crew parked out front?

  There were at least a dozen open boxes scattered around the room.

  I searched each one, but no luck.

  “Here, kitty, kitty . . .” I called softly, but no cat appeared. It was a longshot, but I had to try, didn’t I?

  Once I flipped the light switch in his dining room, the chandelier warmed the darkness. This room was formal, elegant, and tradition
al. I got down on my hands and knees and peered beneath the side cabinet, hoping to catch two reflective eyes staring back at me, but it was empty. I’d probably wasted time looking since the cabinet was really low to the ground, but cats were also liquid and could fit into tight spaces.

  I sat back on my heels and stared at the cabinet for a moment. It struck me as odd. For a guy who lived alone and never seemed to entertain, why did he need it? It was expensive and high-quality. The same for the large dining room table and its chairs.

  Overhead, a floorboard creaked, announcing Clay hadn’t found the cat yet either and I needed to get back to work.

  Across the hall from the dining room was his study, and I checked every spot I possibly could, fighting against my curiosity to snoop. I was nosy-natured, and he was an enigma, so it was tempting, but somehow I managed to resist. Only the things out in the open were allowed to grab my attention—like the drafting table next to the bay window. There were blueprints clipped to it, except they didn’t seem to be for his kitchen remodel. Whatever this building was, it was huge.

  My focus had to move on.

  There was a bedroom on the main floor, and once I realized it was the master suite, it was torturous to stay on-task. This was his room, full of dark-colored wood and secrets only someone close to him would know. Like how he slept on the left side of his big bed.

  And he wore boxer-briefs.

  I knew because the chair in the corner had become a catch-all of clothes, including a black pair of underwear. I began to picture what he’d look like in them, and then immediately forced it from my mind.

  Come on, Lilith. Stop thinking about banging your next-door neighbor for two seconds.

  There was nothing hidden under his bed except a pair of discarded socks. Where the heck had this cat run off to? I strode through Clay’s bathroom and into his large closet, but a thorough scan confirmed I was the only creature in here. Surrounded by his suits and dress shirts, it felt . . . intimate. I put a hand out, brushing my palm over the soft fabric of his suit sleeves—

  “What are you doing?” His tone was brusque.

  I nearly yelped in surprise, dropping my hand, and spun to face him. “Sorry.” Embarrassed warmth crawled along my cheeks. He stared at me through his sexy glasses, his chest rising and falling with his hurried breath.

  Only I had the strange feeling he wasn’t irritated at me. The longer I gazed at him, the more I began to wonder if this was something else. His expression was impossible to read. Was he anxious?

  Or intrigued?

  I lifted my chin and pretended he hadn’t just caught me petting his clothes like a lunatic. “I take it you haven’t found the cat yet?”

  He set a hand on his hip and let out a sigh. “No.”

  Silence seeped into the space, bringing tension along with it. It seemed like he realized it at the same moment I did, just how alone we were in this small space with him blocking my exit. My brain warned me it was possible the cat didn’t exist. This man was my neighbor, but he was still a stranger, and I’d walked willingly into his house. Right into what could have been his trap.

  But if that were true, why did he look like he was the one who’d been cornered? His hands hung awkwardly at his sides and were curled into loose fists. Not with anger, but . . . maybe discomfort? As if my presence in this space was causing him distress.

  A voice inside me whispered the cat might not be the only wounded animal inside his house.

  “I don’t know where he could be.” He sounded defeated. “I’ve looked everywhere.”

  “It’s okay,” I said quietly. “We’ll find him.”

  Clay was skeptical as he used a knuckle to push up the dark-framed glasses on the bridge of his nose, but he nodded.

  “I can look upstairs—” A thought struck me. “Wait. Don’t you have a basement?” Most houses in our subdivision didn’t, which was why I remembered. “My mom and I walked through an open house before you bought this place last year.”

  If he was uncomfortable I had invaded his closet, now he looked downright terrified at the idea of me going deeper inside his home. Something like panic flitted through his eyes, and his words came out in a rush. “He’s not down there. I always keep the door shut.”

  Well. His quick response made me quirk an eyebrow. Maybe he was a serial killer.

  He straightened and attempted to act natural. “He’s probably somewhere on the main floor. The kitchen, or the laundry room, or maybe the study.”

  “Laundry room?” Oh, I was an idiot. “It’s off the kitchen, right? I totally missed it.” I’d gotten distracted by all the boxes and the renovations.

  He led the way, both of us moving quickly out of his bedroom, down the hall, and through the kitchen.

  The laundry room wasn’t much bigger than his closet. There was only space for his washer and dryer, but I put my hands on top of one of them and leaned over to look behind. Beneath the accordion dryer vent, I spotted a patch of white fur.

  “There you are,” I said softly.

  “How the hell? He’s behind the dryer?”

  “Yup.”

  I straightened just as Clay went to lean over to see better, and our shoulders brushed against each other. It made my breath catch, and I wanted to laugh in surprise. I was comfortable with both my space and others’. Some might even label me as the overly friendly, touchy-feely type. I was a confident woman, the kind of girl who ate weakness for breakfast and had no problem making the first move.

  So, why the fuck did something as innocent as my shoulder brushing against his make my heart flutter?

  Was it how he seemed equally affected by it? He hesitated like a scientist who’d just received an unexpected test result. His gaze shifted to the appliance in front of us.

  “I can move the dryer, but not enough to get back there to get him out.”

  I shook my head. “Let’s try to coax him out first. Do you have food we could use, like cheese or a can of tuna?”

  He considered it before nodding. “Yeah, I think so.”

  I stayed in the laundry room as he disappeared, and a moment later there were sounds like he was rummaging around in his pantry. A whir of a mechanical can opener rang out.

  “Should I put some on a plate?”

  “No, just bring me the can,” I answered, climbing up on top of the washing machine.

  He turned the corner to find me sitting there with my legs crossed and my hands braced behind me. His steps slowed as he approached, trying to keep his thoughts from showing on his face—yet he failed spectacularly.

  My provocative pose wasn’t intentional, but if his mind happened to go to the idea of him fucking me on top of his washer during an aggressive spin cycle . . . Well, I wasn’t the least bit mad about it.

  Maybe later we could make that idea a reality.

  I reached forward, took the small can from him, then turned to lower it behind the dryer. It didn’t take much to entice the cat. The scent of the fish grabbed the animal’s attention immediately, and two orange eyes stared up at me with interest.

  “You hungry?” I asked.

  I knew I had the cat hooked when I lifted the can and he followed, bounding up on top of the dryer beside me with a soft thump.

  “That’s a good sign,” I said quietly so I didn’t startle the cat. “He’s interested in eating, so he’s probably not in much pain.”

  I set the can down, and as soon as the cat took its first bite, I did a visual evaluation. The tuxedo cat had his weight evenly distributed between his paws, and when I nudged the can across the top of the washer, he hurried after it. His gait was normal.

  Except—

  “She’s not favoring one leg over the other,” I said, “so that’s good.”

  “She?”

  “Yup. This cat’s a female.”

  I held out my hand to let her smell me, but she was far more interested in her meal than anything else. I ran a hand along her spine, che
cking for any signs of trauma, and when she arched into my touch, the tip of her tail wagged happily.

  I grinned at Clay as I stroked the cat a second time. “I don’t think she’d be moving her tail if it were broken.”

  As if to help reinforce my claim, the animal began to purr, and the rumbling sound grew louder as she opened her mouth to take another bite of fish.

  I inspected her fur, which seemed clean and free of fleas. She was skinny, though, and there was a scratch healing on the top of her head as if she’d been in a fight with another animal recently.

  “You can bring her by my clinic tomorrow and we can check her for a microchip, but I don’t think she’ll have one. I’m betting she was a stray until she found you.”

  “Tomorrow?” Clay’s tone was dubious. “Wait a minute, what—”

  I ignored him and gave her some scritches behind her ears. “You’re too pretty and sweet to be homeless, aren’t you?”

  He said my name the same way I expected he’d tell me to get serious. “Lilith.”

  I gave him a plain look. “This cat risked life and limb to adopt you as her owner.”

  Anxiety and confusion tightened his shoulders. “No. I don’t want to own a cat.”

  “Why not?” It just fell out of my mouth, loaded with double-meaning. “You don’t like pussy?”

  TWO

  Surprise at my innuendo made Clay jolt, but the way he recovered in a blink of an eye turned it right back around to me. His gaze slid from mine, down to the thin, wet top I wore and how it molded to my breasts. My pebbled nipples jutted out, and when he zeroed in on them, desire flared in his eyes.

  Then he took a deep breath and licked his lips, making heat warm my cheeks and a dull ache throb between my legs.

  Oh, yes.

  It was silent in the room, but the way he brazenly lusted at me was deafening. It rumbled through my body just as the thunder outside reverberated through his big house.

  But his wicked look slowly faded into a serious one. “I like . . . cats just fine. What I meant is, I can’t own a cat.”

  “Why? Are you allergic?”

  He pressed his lips together for a half-second. “No, but I have to travel for my job.”