The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood Book 3) by Nikki Sloane (top e book reader .TXT) 📗

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 traditional. 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