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

“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, checking 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