The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood 3)

“Thank you,” Travis said, “for tonight.”

I knew he was talking to both of us. I smiled and planted a sweet kiss against the side of his neck.

Clay drew in a deep breath. “You’re welcome.”

I awoke when Noir jumped on the bed and ran her damp nose against my fingers, seeking a hand to pet her. I was happy to do it, until awareness of my situation hit me.

I was in Clay’s bed, a man was softly snoring beside me, and he was not Clay.

Travis lay on his stomach, his hair disheveled but a peaceful look on his face as he slept with the sheets pushed down to his waist.

It was light outside, so it was morning, and I searched the room for both a clock and the man with whom I jointly owned a cat. I found the clock first, telling me it was a quarter past eight, but there were no signs of Clay.

The glasses he’d put on the dresser last night were gone.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and gingerly climbed out, not wanting to wake Travis. Had we taken up too much room last night and driven Clay from his own bed? I hurried to dress in my clothes from yesterday, then ventured out into the house.

He wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen. Cold dread lined my stomach. Had he left?

No. The faint sound of something being nailed could be heard downstairs, and I let out a tight breath.

Plus, there was a pot of coffee that looked freshly brewed sitting on the counter beside two waiting mugs. I poured myself one, added some sugar, and made my way to the basement steps.

He was hunched over the workbench, stretching the leather-like vinyl fabric over a padded piece of wood.

“Good morning,” I announced.

I’d either been too quiet coming down the stairs or Clay had been too focused to hear because he jumped and spun to face me, suspicion flaring in his eyes. It dissipated once he recognized me.

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s all right. Good morning.” He honest-to-God had a pencil tucked behind his ear and I grinned. Why did I find that so sexy? He gave me an evaluating look. “I see you found the coffee.”

“Yeah.” I glanced over at the tabletop. I wasn’t sure what he was working on but could tell this was new. Last time I’d been down here, the space had been empty. “Wow, you’ve been busy.”

His gaze darted away, and he went back to stretching and stapling the fabric. “Trying to play catch-up with orders.”

I strove for a causal tone. “What time did you get up this morning? I’m sorry if we drove you out of your own bed.”

“You didn’t. I couldn’t sleep.”

Something was off. He seemed distant. “Oh. What’d you do instead?”

He gave his answer by pulling the handle on the staple gun, causing another sharp crack as metal drove into the wood.

I stiffened. “Clay. How long have you been down here?”

“Since three, I guess.”

I was suddenly cold and fought a shiver. He’d been down here for hours.

It was impossible not to think last night was the cause. I bit down on the inside of my cheek, not sure what to say, and the silence was uncomfortable. Didn’t he like what we’d done last night? I still felt the sweet ache of both of them in my body, but he was acting so . . . indifferent.

I flinched as he placed another staple with a loud snap, making the coffee in my mug slosh.

“Is everything okay?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t look at me, perhaps pretending to be distracted by his work. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know.” I swallowed thickly. “You seem kind of—”

“Is he still here?”

He’d asked it like it didn’t matter one way or the other, but it very clearly did matter. It gave me the impression that whatever Clay was upset about, it had to do with the man upstairs.

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s still sleeping. Do you want me to wake him up?”

“No, that’s fine.” He paused, the staple gun hovering over its next target. “Just so you’re aware, I have to leave soon to get some more supplies, but you two feel free to stay as long as you’d like.”

My mouth dropped open. Had he just dismissed me?

He’d told me he didn’t date, so it wasn’t like I expected snuggling and breakfast together this morning, but after the sex last night he’d been so affectionate and warm. I hated this cold, guarded version of him, especially after everything we’d shared.

It hurt, and not in the enjoyable way, but I refused to show it. My face heated as I plastered on an overly bright smile. “Okay, great. Thanks.”

He must have recognized I was upset, but he had no comment. Instead, he pulled the handle on staple gun, which was like putting a period on the end of our conversation.