The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood 3)

“Let’s get a drink, and I’ll give you the tour,” he said.

When I nodded, Clay gestured toward the bar. One side of it was occupied by a few guys who sat on stools, and their gazes were fixated on the dancefloor—until I walked by.

Awareness trickled down my spine. I looked good tonight in my corset, short skirt, and stilettos, and these men had noticed. The atmosphere surrounding me thickened.

It was the same experience as a group of guys zeroing on me at a bar when I’d been separated from my friends.

It felt like I was being watched by predators. As if these men were a pack of wolves and I was fresh meat plunked down in front of them. Had Clay sensed it too? He set his hand on the small of my back, and my heart tripped over itself. Maybe it was just a helpful gesture to guide me, but I doubted it. He’d done it to lay claim.

And I didn’t mind that one bit.

While we waited for the bartender to mix our drinks, I ticked my head toward the men on the other end of the bar. “What’s the story with those guys?”

“Single men are only allowed at the bar.”

“They can’t go anywhere else?” Confusion made me press my lips together. “They pay a hundred bucks to, what? Just sit at the bar all night?”

He found my question amusing as he tipped the bartender, grabbed our drinks, and handed mine to me. “No. They can leave the bar if someone invites them to join them.”

“Oh, I gotcha. If a woman picks them up, then they can—”

“Yeah, except it’s almost always couples.”

“Really?” I grinned scandalously. “Threesomes?”

He was so matter-of-fact about it. “Sometimes, or the husband just wants to watch.”

Oh, my God. My gaze flicked to the men perched on their barstools who looked like they were waiting for someone to punch their dance card. “If I hadn’t come with you tonight, would you be sitting with them?”

Not that he’d have to wait long. He had the whole Clark Kent thing going on, which was incredibly sexy. At least, it was to me. I’d always though Superman was the hottest when he was hiding behind his plain clothes and glasses.

“I’ve been a member for more than five years,” he said, “and I’ve been vetted, so I have the same freedoms as you.”

“Yeah?” I lifted an eyebrow and pretended to be skeptical. “Why don’t you get naked and prove it?”

It was so much fun to catch him off guard. His eyes would widen behind his black frames, and I could see how disoriented he became when things didn’t go exactly as he planned. He recovered quickly, though.

“I stand corrected. I have almost the same freedoms as you.”

He took a sip of his drink, then motioned beyond the dancefloor. There was a doorway on the far side of the room that led to the rest of the club, and I was eager for the tour, but before I could take a step, my heart lurched.

There was a man seated alone at one of the tables with his hand wrapped around a tumbler of amber liquid, although the drink looked untouched. He wore a beautiful gray suit and blue tie, and when he lifted his hand to wave, a brilliant smile broke on his face.

I didn’t know him, but blood rushed through me, heating my body regardless.

Clay was handsome and sexy, exuding intelligence and competence. He was like a Hollywood version a hot nerd.

This stranger waving at me was the Hollywood version of a hunk, and even though I usually liked Clay’s brand of guy best, it was impossible to ignore how good this man looked.

He was younger than Clay, but older than I was—maybe the guy was thirty. He had sandy-colored hair that was perfectly unruly, the ends curling as they fell to brush his ears. And—sweet Jesus—his friendly smile. It lit up the room.

I waved back, keeping my gaze locked on him, even as I whispered to Clay. “Why is that guy waving to me?”

He chuckled. “He’s not.”

When Clay waved back at the man, embarrassment slammed into me. How freaking cocky had my question been? To just assume the guy was interested in me, and not Clay? He’d told me twenty seconds ago he’d been a member at this club for more than five years. Surely, he’d met other regulars and become friends.

Another idea dawned in me. “Is he the client you’re meeting?”

“No.” I’d expected him to say more, and the long silence prompted him to reluctantly continue. “He’s a . . . friend.”

“Oh?” Interesting. “Let’s say hi before we start the tour.”

But he didn’t move. Instead, his gaze sharpened on me. “Why?”

What did he mean, why? “Because it’s polite?”

“Hmm, is that it?” His slight smile was teasing. “I’m sure the fact that he’s attractive has nothing to do with it.”