The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood Book 3) by Nikki Sloane (freda ebook reader .txt) 📕

by jokingly asking why I didn’t get horny texts riddled with typos from either of my men.

Me: It’s like you don’t even care about me.

That set off a slew of filthy texts, and I wondered if each man were trying to outdo the other. The conversation was scorching, and it was a miracle it didn’t melt my phone.

As the weeks ticked by, we settled into a comfortable pattern.

Weeknight sessions were carried out by Travis and usually planned by Clay, but not always. The scenes were more of a partnership than they’d been before, and I suspected the same was true of the planning sessions the men had privately. The weekends when Clay was home, things were flip-flopped. Sometimes Travis watched Clay and me on his phone and other times he’d sit over by the workbench, quietly observing.

The summer ended and Cassidy returned to school. A junior now in college, she was so busy, we mostly talked through series of sporadic texts. It gave me less opportunity to tell my friend how I was feeling or about the worry that was growing in my stomach.

Every night I spent with Clay, or Travis, or both of them, felt one step closer to the cliff I knew was coming. It was twice as risky as anything I’d had before. What if one of them fell in love with me? Would they have to exit the relationship, or would the whole thing be over? It was the last thing I wanted.

Rather than be an adult and talk about my feelings like I’d promised Clay I would, I avoided it. Everything was going so great now. I rationalized my worry away, forcing it to a back corner of my mind by telling myself I’d figure out how to cross that bridge whenever I came to it.

The three of us talked every day through the group chat.

It wasn’t always a recap of our scenes. It was filled with all sorts of topics, like Travis’s story about the crazy lady who kept bringing live lobsters to the zoo. She’d bought them from a tank at the market to ‘rescue them’ and said the zoo needed to find a way to care for them.

There was also Clay’s never-ending quest to find the best pizza in Jacksonville, and my marathon photo viewing session with my folks when they returned from Machu Pichu.

During the last week of September, I came down with a cold, so I had to take a raincheck on my session with the men that evening. Except when I went over to do my nightly check on Noir, Travis showed up with takeout and a movie—under the direction of Clay, he’d said. Our partner in Florida streamed the same movie to his computer as we FaceTimed with him so we could watch it together. I snuggled under a blanket with Noir on my lap, Travis at my side, and Clay on the screen of my phone.

It was wonderful. The men seemed just as satisfied hanging out and spending time together with me as they were when we went down into the basement.

How had this happened?

I didn’t break under the impact of a crop or paddle when either of my partners wielded one. But this caring, attentive gesture? It threatened to break me completely. I refused to acknowledge how they made me feel. I had no choice but to stave off my emotions. The longer I held them off, the more time I could have with these men who seemed perfectly attuned to what I desired.

To what I needed.

The next weekend Clay was home, he sent me a text Saturday morning.

Clay: I have dinner reservations for us tonight. 6pm, meet at my place.

I paused. He hadn’t sent the message to the group text—it was just to me. Was this a date? And if so . . . what about Travis? Didn’t we need to tell him?

It took me forever to pick out what to wear. In the end, I went with a black crossover blouse, a pair of super skinny jeans, and nude pumps. At a quarter to six, I couldn’t wait any longer to see him. I scurried down the stone path to the gate, and then strolled across my driveway, heading for Clay’s front door.

I rang the doorbell, which was kind of funny since I’d been letting myself into his house for months, but it seemed weird to barge in without warning.

“Hi,” he said after he pulled the door open and gestured for me to come in.

He took me in from head to toe and clearly liked what he saw, and it was the same for me. He was dressed nicer than normal, wearing a lightweight sweater and slacks, rather than jeans and a t-shirt.

“Hi.” I surprised him by dropping a kiss on his cheek, fast enough I could pretend this was merely friendly and not because I was desperate to kiss him. “Am I underdressed?”

“No, you’re good.” He shut the door behind me, but kept his hand on the doorknob, suddenly distracted with a thought. “I have something for you though.”

“Yeah?” I followed him deeper into the house.

“Hold on, let me get it.” He disappeared into his bedroom while I remained in the living room. The television was on, and a bright orange octopus swam across the screen, followed by a woman telling the camera how smart the species was.

When he reemerged, I gave him a dubious smile. “You’re watching Animal Planet?”

His gaze flew to the television where the docuseries about the Georgia Aquarium was currently playing, and . . . was he embarrassed? His tone verged on defensive. “I turned it on for Noir.”

If that were true, it was super cute, but Clay was flustered. It told me something else was going on. “Is she interested in it?” I looked around for our black and white cat but didn’t find her. “Where is she?”

He stood frozen for a single breath, and then gave up. “Okay, I turned it on for me.” He rolled his shoulders back and met my gaze