Free Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) by Kristen Kehoe

shows nails pushed between the slats. Straightedges, rulers, and any number of different-looking tools hang from those nails. Magnets stick to the solid slats, but no photos or bits of paper hang from them.
    On the desk’s surface are boxes of pencils and chalk; circular jars hold pens of varying colors, sizes, and tips. My eyes continue to roam, stopping when they hit the iMac.
    If I was a junky, I would be jonesing right now.
    With a twenty-seven inch screen, it’s an all-in-one. I glance at the model number and nearly whimper. New . Dear lord, it’s the newest make, with over five-thousand pixel count and apps galore.
    My palms are a little damp; my heart rate speeds up a little bit, and my breath starts coming in short pants. For some women, it’s shoes. Others, handbags. My own mother softens more for a well-made handbag than she does for her own children.
    It’s not the sight of Italian leather shoes, or the feel of a supple leather bag that brings goose bumps to my skin. It’s a machine like the one in front of me.
    Intricate. Intelligent. Innovative.
    The possibilities with technology are endless. The ability to create, to give back—to see the world through an actual lens from thousands of miles away… unreal.
    I resist—barely—running my fingers over the keys or smart mouse, instead taking a sip of my beer. Carbonation burns my throat and nose, making my eyes water slightly. I back away from the computer and study the rest of the desk, noting the stack of sketch pads in the corner.
    Curiosity wars with propriety. I want to sit on the old roller stool at Brooklyn’s desk and flip through each book, skimming over the lines and colors. After last night, his talent intrigues me, and so does his process.
    In a blueprint, an app, a code, even a recipe, the process is just as important as the outcome. How was something created? Can it be replicated, made better, streamlined? What was the original intention?
    I think about my choices—what did I intend when pandering to my parents? Did I really think going across the country would save me from the ever-watchful eye of my mother? Her reach is long and far. The intent wasn’t to branch out… it was to run away.
    When Brooklyn comes out of the bathroom, I’m sitting on his couch, watching the world outside. “You seemed more private than this.”
    He raises his brow and sits in the chair next to the couch. His hair is damp and pulled back from his face with a rubber band, exposing those chiseled cheekbones, strong jaw, and midnight eyes.
    “You seemed more plastic than this,” he finally counters.
    I can’t help my amusement. “Another statement that should offend me.”
    He doesn’t smile, but the intensity in his face fades a little. “Does it?”
    I shake my head. “No. Interests me, maybe. Usually, when people want something from someone, like you’ve said you want from me, they work hard to be overly complimentary.”
    He stands now, and I crane my neck to look up at him. “Red, if I want something from you, I’ll ask. And then I’ll do my best to take it, no matter what. But I won’t lie to you.” He softens the words by holding out his hand. “Why don’t we go for a walk? I’ll buy you some dinner and answer your questions. Then you can tell me about this list you’ve started.”
     

Chapter 14
    Brooks
    The boardwalk is crowded, but compared to the weekend crowds, it’s tame. Jordan seems to make note of everything and everyone. We don’t talk much while we wander, but I get the sense it’s more because she’s holding back. Silence is something she’s learned—it isn’t natural. There’s energy bleeding through her, nerves and something else; I can see her taming.
    We grab tacos at a local shop that’s seen better days. The outside is dingy, faded orange-and-blue paint; the inside is scarred laminate. I see Jordan’s eyes widen slightly when we enter, and because everyone else is most likely getting their takeout from a place