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

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.

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.