The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood 3)

“Wait,” he said.

“What is it?”

His gaze dropped to my feet. My open-toe pumps had a summery floral print and four-inch heels. I’d bought them off-season last year for a total steal.

His face took a dubious cast. “Don’t you want to change shoes?”

“No, I’m good.” Because I loved my shoes. Stilettos, or sandals, or any kind of sexy heels . . . My closet was full of them, and I took every opportunity I could to wear them.

We didn’t talk as we hurried across the path that led to the gate in the fence, and my shoes were slick on the stones. The rain was cold as it pelted me, soaking my ivory shirt and squishing between my toes, but I ignored it and did my best to keep up with Clay’s fast clip.

The exterior lights surrounding his large house were on, making raindrops glint, and his garage door was open. We went through it, passing by his Ford pickup truck and up the two steps to the door that led into his home.

I stood in the side entryway, dripping on the tile floor, waiting for him to explain, but he didn’t. Instead, Clay’s gaze bounced around frantically as if he wasn’t sure where the emergency was.

“There’s a cat in here somewhere,” he said.

I blinked. “Um, okay . . .?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, and his expression was full of embarrassment. At least, I assumed it was, based off his tone. I was totally distracted by the flex of his bicep peeking out from under his shirt sleeve.

He said it quietly. “I think I hurt it.”

Everything in me went still, and my voice flash-froze into ice. “What?”

“It was an accident.” His eyes filled with remorse. “A few weeks ago, this cat randomly showed up at my place. Maybe you’ve seen it? A black and white one?”

I hadn’t. He peered at me, waiting for a response, but my stone-cold demeanor didn’t change, and it forced him to continue.

“It keeps trying to get into my house. Every time I open a door, the cat’s there, like he’s been lying in wait. It rushes for the door.” He hesitated. “When I got home, I didn’t realize he’d followed me into the garage.”

“Oh, no.” I tensed. “You hit him with your car?”

Thankfully, he shook his head. “I’d just come in when I saw the cat charging for the steps, so I tried to shut the door before he made it in.” Clay swallowed a breath. “I . . . wasn’t fast enough. His tail got caught in it, and—shit—the howl he made was awful.”

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.