The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood Book 3)

by Nikki Sloane

  “Really?” Confusion tugged my eyebrows together. “Seems like you’re home all the time to me.”

  His expression shuttered. He didn’t like the idea I was keeping tabs on him, and his tone turned accusatory. “Oh, am I?”

  I shrugged without shame. “You’re hot and mysterious, and I’m curious.”

  A statement like that would fluster some guys, but not Clay. He simply blinked behind his glasses. “I’m not mysterious. I’m . . .” He searched for the right word. “Private.”

  “Okay.” I stroked the cat. “Private guys can care for cats, you know.”

  “So can nosy neighbors,” he fired back. “You work for a veterinarian. Don’t you think that makes you a better fit?”

  “This cat didn’t pick me, dude, she picked you. And I think you owe it to her after slamming her tail in the door.” I slid down off the washing machine and was thrilled when he held his ground. It meant we were standing close enough to each other I could pick up the faint hint of his cologne. “Besides, as much as I’d like to, my landlords have a strict no-pets policy.”

  He looked dubious. “Don’t you live with your parents?”

  “No. I rent from them.”

  Yes, I was twenty-six and resided on my parents’ property, but as far as I was concerned, I lived on my own. My parents’ guest house was a complete space, including a full kitchen, two bedrooms, and one-and-a-half baths. I paid my rent and utilities and came and went as I pleased.

  But Clay continued to look at me like I was making it all up.

  “If I didn’t live there,” I said, “they’d rent my place out to someone else, and they’d be the ones keeping up with the main house.” I pushed a swath of my dark brown hair back over my shoulder. “You know my folks are never home anymore, right? Last year my dad retired, and now they’re doing all the traveling they’ve been wanting to since they had kids.”

  “Oh,” he said. “No, I didn’t know. Where are they now?”

  “Vietnam.” Wait, was that right? “Or maybe Myanmar? I don’t remember their exact itinerary.” Just that they wouldn’t be home for another month, and they weren’t planning to stay home long. South America was booked for September and October. “Anyway, my dad’s allergic, and my mom’s always been super anti-pet, so me having a cat is a dealbreaker for them.” My mother’s aversion to pets had played a big role in why I worked with animals. “Honestly, I couldn’t afford a place half as nice on my salary, so I’m not about to risk it, even if this cat is adorable.”

  I massaged the scruff of her neck, and she purred like a motor.

  Clay sighed. “It’s not like I’m heartless. She is . . . kind of cute,” he admitted softly. “Look, I’d take her in if I could, but I’m heading to Florida tomorrow morning, and I’ll be gone the rest of the week. Maybe longer.”

  “What is it you do?” I asked. “All my mom told me is you’re in tech.”

  He cocked his head in confusion, then a half-smile tilted his lips. “I’m not in tech. Architect,” he corrected. “She must have misheard me.”

  “Oh.” Well, the drafting table and blueprints in the study made a bit more sense now. “You’re building something in Florida?”

  “We’re in phase two of a new hospital tower in Jacksonville, which, as you can imagine, is a big project. I’ll be back and forth all the time for the next six months.”

  My gaze dropped to his tile floor while I contemplated what to say next. The one solution I came up with was crazy, and he probably wouldn’t go for it, but what was the harm in asking? I lifted my chest and flashed the biggest, most persuasive smile I owned.

  “So . . . I have an idea,” I said. “You have pet-friendly space, but no time. I have the time, but no pet-friendly space. Let’s make a deal. I’ll take care of her while you’re gone. I mean, I’m right next door. It’d be easy for me to pop over and check in on her.”

  Clay looked at me like I’d just offered to rotate his tires. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “We’ll share the cat. I’ll even let you name her.”

  His tone was dubious. “You want to . . . own a cat. With me.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Because I’m a stranger?”

  I waved a hand, brushing off his silly statement. “No, you’re not.” I smiled widely. “I know where you live, Clay. Just think of it as joint custody. We both get something out of this arrangement. I get to own a cat, and you don’t even have to take care of it.”

  He couldn’t have looked more conflicted if he’d tried. “We can’t do that. That idea is . . . crazy.” And yet, it was clear he hadn’t ruled it out. Was he actually considering it?

  “Cats are easy,” I added.

  His gaze shifted away from me as he thought long and hard about it. “I don’t have any stuff, like cat food, or—”

  Hurried excitement crept into my voice. “I can go to the store right now. I’ll pay for everything.”

  “It’s not a money thing.” He lifted a hand like he could pluck the answer out of thin air. “How would it even work?”

  I tentatively placed a hand on his arm and fought the urge to squeeze the muscle that lurked beneath the damp cotton of his shirt. “I just need a key or your garage door code. I can check on other stuff for you while you’re gone too,” I said, “like I do for my parents. Water your plants, let you know how the remodel is going.”

  His attention went to my fingers resting on him, and I couldn’t tell if he liked my touch or not. Part of him seemed excited by it, but a much larger part seemed guarded and uneasy. I retreated, not wanting to turn him off.

  “I don’t need an update on the remodel,” he said. “I’m the one redoing the kitchen.”

  Really? I stared beyond him to the box of tiles just outside the door. “By yourself?”

  He straightened. “Yes. I enjoy the work, and—as I mentioned—I’m a private person. I . . .” His voice went uneven and low. He wasn’t sure he should reveal it. “This is my space. I don’t like strangers in my house.”

  My heart quickened.

  Had it had been hard for him to ask for my help and let me in? He’d been uncomfortable when he’d caught me in his closet.

  “I’m not a stranger,” I said softly and strived for a light, playful tone. “You know where I live.”

  “I do,” he said.

  I licked my lips and peered up at him. “We could get to know each other better.”

  When his gaze drifted back to me, my breath caught.

  The desire was back in his eyes, but there was something else too. A strange kind of power. I’d thought I was luring him in, but it made me wonder if he was doing the same to me.

  “Maybe we could name her Noir,” he said.

  I blinked back my surprise. “Because she’s black and white?” It was a far more original name than ‘Oreo,’ which was what all the tuxedo cats that came into the clinic always seemed to be. I smiled. “Noir. I like that.”

  The first few days, my focus was solely on our new cat. As I suspected, she wasn’t microchipped, and there hadn’t been any recent calls to the animal shelter in town inquiring about a missing black-and-white domestic shorthair. After Dr. Johnston gave her a clean bill of health and her vaccinations, I coaxed Noir back into her carrier and took her home.

  Well . . . her home, at Clay’s place.

  After we’d struck the deal of jointly owning a cat together, we’d gotten into his truck, driven to the nearby Target, and purchased enough supplies to last Noir a week. I fought him on who got to pay, but he insisted, and in the end, I gave in and let him do it.

  “Can I ask a question?” I said once we were back in his truck, heading home. “Is there a specific reason you don’t like strangers in your house?”

  For a moment, the only sound in the car interior was the soft ticking of his turn signal. Then his quiet voice filled the space. “No, it’s just a general thing.”

  I wasn’t sure if h
e was going to elaborate, but he drew in a deep breath, like he was preparing for a challenge.

  “Being around unfamiliar people,” he continued, “makes me uncomfortable. Honestly, sometimes it’s exhausting. I can deal with it when I’m at work or out at a job site, but then I need space afterward.” His hand tightened on the steering wheel. “Not to sound like a jerk, but most of the time I’d rather be alone.”

  It was the same for me, but instead of telling him, I bit down on my bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  He took his eyes off the road for a fraction of a second so he could glance at me. “No. Don’t worry, you didn’t.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “I mean, you should. You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, and the most unexpected things come out of your mouth, but for some reason you don’t make me uncomfortable.”

  Pleasure washed through me at his compliment, and I shifted in my seat, subtly leaning closer to him. “Why do you think that is?”

  He considered his answer for a long moment, and then didn’t give it to me. “Do you like people?”

  “Like, am I outgoing?” I shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”

  “I mean, do you like being around people?”

  I stared out the rain-splattered windshield and into the darkness of the night. “I like animals better, if I’m being honest. They’re less, I don’t know, complicated.”

  “Yes.” He nodded.

  Seduction slid into my voice. “But I like being around certain people.”

  A short laugh punched from his lips. “If you’re in any way implying me, well—I’m about as complicated a person as you can get.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  He nodded but didn’t explain.

  The short drive ended as he swung the truck into his driveway, and as soon as we got back inside his house, we were focused on getting Noir squared away. After that, he walked me through the process of disarming his home security system, which was so advanced, I had to take notes on my phone.

  And once we were done and Noir began exploring her new home, Clay rummaged around in a drawer in his study and extracted a key. He held it in his hand, and his gaze traced over the silver notches on one side. I understood his hesitation. This was a big step for him, and I wanted to do everything I could to make him feel comfortable with me—not just in his home, but as a person.

  “You can ask me anything, you know.” My tone was playful. “I’ve heard communication is super important when you’re co-parenting.”

  A smile twitched on his lips, and Clay’s fingers unfurled, holding the key out to me in the palm of his hand. “Okay. Can I ask how old you are?”

  Instinctively, I straightened, trying to make myself look more mature. “Twenty-six. You?”

  If my age surprised him, he didn’t show it. He simply nodded. “I’m thirty-five.”

  It was a question I probably should have asked sooner. “Have you owned a pet before?

  “Yeah. My mom had a cat when I was young. She was pretty—all-white—but she only liked my mom and merely tolerated the rest of us.”

  “What was her name? Wait, let me guess. Snowball?”

  “No, it was way more original than that. It was Kitty.”

  “How creative.” I laughed lightly. “So, Noir will be your first pet since then?” When he nodded, I grinned. “Well, I’m glad I get to share her with you.”

  Clay looked pleasantly surprised. “Me too.”

  We lapsed into silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was warm and inviting.

  When our shared moment was over, his gaze turned to the window, and he moved to pull an umbrella out of his entryway closet. “Can I walk you home?”

  It wasn’t raining nearly as hard as when he’d dashed over to my place to ask for help, and as we walked together, fat raindrops pitter-pattered against the large black umbrella. I loved being under it because it gave me an excuse to linger close to him.

  But when we reached my door, he announced he needed to pack for his work trip, thanked me for my help, and said good night before I could invite him in or make a move.

  I was able to quickly temper my disappointment, though—he’d given me both his number and a key to his place, and I’d have ample opportunities over the next few weeks to learn what made him such a complicated man.

  I went over every day the first week and got in the habit of texting him pictures of Noir. Sometimes I had to be quiet and sneak into the house to catch her curled up on a couch cushion in the sun. If I made too much noise, she’d run and hide at first. Like Clay, she was shy in the beginning, but warmed up quickly when she realized it was me.

  I did my absolute best not to snoop through his house.

  He’d said he was a private person, and I was determined to respect that. But— damn—I felt like one of the wives in the Bluebeard folktale every time I walked past the door to his basement. Was there a bloody chamber behind it, full of all his dead wives?

  Why had he been so nervous when I’d mentioned going down there? My curiosity grew each day. At least he’d be back tomorrow, and when I stopped by to say hello to both him and our cat, I’d find a way to casually bring it up in conversation.

  Except I didn’t get a chance. I was sitting on the rug in his living room, scratching Noir’s chin exactly the way she liked it when a loud bang came from below, startling both of us.

  “What the fuck was that?” I demanded.

  Noir looked at me with the same question in her eyes as she leapt to her feet, her body on high alert.

  The bang had been loud enough it sounded like something heavy had crashed to the floor. I ran different ideas in my head, from a light fixture breaking to the water heater malfunctioning, and all of them warranted investigation.

  Or at the very least, a peek down the stairs.

  My heartbeat kicked up a notch as I wrapped my hand around the doorknob. The anticipation had been building all week, and excitement zipped through me like nervous electricity. I turned the knob and pushed the door open, only to stare down the dark and disappointingly normal staircase.

  I wasn’t the only one curious, though.

  A half-second later, Noir bolted down the stairs and turned the corner at the bottom, disappearing out of view.

  “Well, shit.”

  I flipped on the light and descended the stairs after her.

  Last time I’d been in this basement, more than a year ago, the space had been set up as one large bonus room, a couch on one side and a play area for kids on the other. When Clay had moved in, he’d changed it dramatically. The carpet was gone, replaced with laminate floors, and more lights brightened the room.

  He’d converted it into a workshop, sectioning it off into stations. One corner was an impressive work bench and table saw. Another held materials stored in tidy, labeled compartments, and beside it—the items too big to go into drawers or bins, like lumber and reams of black and red fabrics, which were either vinyl or leather.

  I forgot all about my cat as I walked through the space, marveling at the sophisticated organization and flow of the work room.

  Clay built custom furniture, and by the looks of it, it wasn’t just a hobby—it was a side business. An order form was pinned to a board, the specs highlighted, and handwritten notes were inked in the margin. Materials for the ‘pillory stocks’ build had been ordered and were supposed to arrive next week.

  My gaze slid away from the piece of paper, moving toward the finished piece that stood in the corner behind the stairs. I was immediately struck by its sleek lines, but it also took me a moment to make sense of what I was looking at.

  When I did, my mouth dropped open, and heat rushed through me.

  “Holy shit,” I whispered.

  THREE

  Clay had told me he was a complicated man, and as I stared at the sexy piece of furniture he’d crafted, I peeled back one of his layers.

&n
bsp; This St. Andrew’s cross was slightly different than the ones I’d seen online, but there was no mistaking its purpose. The beams still crossed in a giant X, but this one also had crossbars at the top and bottom, so it was more like two triangles kissing.

  The hourglass silhouette of it was outlined with metal, and rings were placed at every intersection. There’d be multiple places to hook on to. Spots to attach handcuffs, rope, or chains. The cross itself was covered in black and accented with red, and I couldn’t help myself. I reached out to touch the leather and found it buttery-soft.

  It was so fucking sexy and stunning, it stole my breath.

  My quiet, studious looking neighbor built custom, high-end BDSM furniture.

  I marveled at the craftmanship as I walked around the St. Andrew’s cross. It was angled back just a bit, and a support beam jutted out the back, probably to give it extra stability. It was impossible to look at it and not imagine what it’d feel like to be bound spreadeagle to it. I wouldn’t care which way he’d have me—either facing him or away, my body exposed for whatever he wanted to do to it.

  Would he spank me?

  Flog or whip me?

  Fuck me?

  I burst into flames at the idea. I’d never explored any kind of kink before, but I was a ‘try everything once’ kind of girl, and this had always fascinated me. A quick look at my internet browser history would reveal my sexual appetite was healthy and I had wide tastes.

  And to do it with Clay? I imagined him delivering a sexy spanking, and then using that same hand to push his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. He’d evaluate me with an exacting look and then adjust my positioning or correct the arch of my back with a firm hand or a dark tone.

  An ache of need radiated through my body.

  There was a W-shaped logo carved into the back of the cross, matching the letterhead of the order pinned to the board. I trailed my fingertips over the carving.

  “Wicked Architecture,” I read aloud.

  I dug my phone out of my back pocket, typed it into Google, and found the company website in the search results. Like the piece of furniture in front of me, his website was slick and sexy. When I clicked on the portfolio page, I stared at the pictures of the various pieces he’d created.