Read Online Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) by Kristen Kehoe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kristen Kehoe
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to want to spend time with me—not think I’m trying to weaken her resolve so I can abuse or take advantage of her—which means she needs to understand me a little bit—or at least feel intrigued.
“I’m not a stranger, Jordan. I’m not some sick fuck carrying an ulterior motive, and I’m not worried about driving five minutes out of my way.” I step away from the truck toward her. She lifts a foot as if to step back, and then sets it down in the same place. She’s afraid, but she doesn’t want to be. I respect that. “I almost canceled tonight.”
Her eyes widen a fraction. “Did you change your mind—about me?”
“No, I didn’t.” For some reason, it feels imperative she know that. I step even closer, dropping her hand. Reaching up, I frame her face in my hands, ignoring her doe-eyed stare and frozen body. “I had a frustrating day, and it seemed easier to cancel. Except—I need to work, Red. Really work. Your face… it makes me see again.” I hate how much power this gives her over me. “Which means, for a while, I need you, no matter what happens during my day.” I step back, and she swallows audibly, drawing a slow breath in.
I wait, my hand on the open door of my truck. Relief sweeps through me when she nods and steps forward. “Where do you want to eat?”
Chapter 13
Jordan
“Mind if I grab a shower real quick?”
This is the first time Brooklyn has spoken since we left campus. He pulls through his neighborhood and up to his house. I’ve been talking non-stop, making observations, comments, asking questions I answer myself. Verbal vomit. My mother hates it. Years of etiquette, lectures, and social guidance have been forgotten while my nerves threaten to eat me alive.
I’m reduced to a babbling imbecile—something I haven’t been since I was twelve—while the stoic artist next to me keeps his chiseled jaw closed.
Which is why, when he asks me a question, I’m so shocked I open my mouth but no words come out.
“Finally run out of breath?”
I snap my mouth shut and pull air in through my nose. Get it together, Jordan. You’re better than this . Not really—but I’m a master at the pretend game.
“Finally find yours?” His raised brow is more amused than impressed. “No, I do not mind if you grab a shower . You’re filthy.”
It was meant as an observation—but the minute the words are out, I hear how snotty they sound. He’s not offended, though. In fact, my statement has him laughing. The sound is rich and out of tune with the usual silence he exudes. I keep my mouth from falling open, but I watch him.
He leans across me and yanks the handle on my door before pushing it open. “I can do that,” I say. Honestly, I’m a little flustered, first from the laugh, second from the thoughtfulness, gruff as the execution was.
“I know.” He gets out of the truck and I follow. He throws his keys on a small table by the door, heading through the open space to the narrow hallway. I follow, stopping inside the kitchen only big enough for a small stove, fridge, and two-top bar table in dark wood.
The high metal stools paired with it show his artistic flare again.
“Make yourself comfortable.” He hands me a beer and disappears down the hallway to the bathroom.
I walk back into the main living area and look around like I did yesterday. The walls are blank, the white making the space open instead of closed off. The furniture is beautiful—each minimal piece its own work of art: the small wooden table looks reclaimed with its metal legs, the track lighting I didn’t notice yesterday, the speakers imbedded in each corner of the ceiling.
There are no photos, no mementos, nothing to identify this as Brooklyn’s house. Except for the workstation.
It’s meticulously organized, a long wooden table standing almost to my chest and spanning nearly half the length of the wall. An industrial-looking slatted metal board hangs on the wall behind the desk. A closer study
“I’m not a stranger, Jordan. I’m not some sick fuck carrying an ulterior motive, and I’m not worried about driving five minutes out of my way.” I step away from the truck toward her. She lifts a foot as if to step back, and then sets it down in the same place. She’s afraid, but she doesn’t want to be. I respect that. “I almost canceled tonight.”
Her eyes widen a fraction. “Did you change your mind—about me?”
“No, I didn’t.” For some reason, it feels imperative she know that. I step even closer, dropping her hand. Reaching up, I frame her face in my hands, ignoring her doe-eyed stare and frozen body. “I had a frustrating day, and it seemed easier to cancel. Except—I need to work, Red. Really work. Your face… it makes me see again.” I hate how much power this gives her over me. “Which means, for a while, I need you, no matter what happens during my day.” I step back, and she swallows audibly, drawing a slow breath in.
I wait, my hand on the open door of my truck. Relief sweeps through me when she nods and steps forward. “Where do you want to eat?”
Chapter 13
Jordan
“Mind if I grab a shower real quick?”
This is the first time Brooklyn has spoken since we left campus. He pulls through his neighborhood and up to his house. I’ve been talking non-stop, making observations, comments, asking questions I answer myself. Verbal vomit. My mother hates it. Years of etiquette, lectures, and social guidance have been forgotten while my nerves threaten to eat me alive.
I’m reduced to a babbling imbecile—something I haven’t been since I was twelve—while the stoic artist next to me keeps his chiseled jaw closed.
Which is why, when he asks me a question, I’m so shocked I open my mouth but no words come out.
“Finally run out of breath?”
I snap my mouth shut and pull air in through my nose. Get it together, Jordan. You’re better than this . Not really—but I’m a master at the pretend game.
“Finally find yours?” His raised brow is more amused than impressed. “No, I do not mind if you grab a shower . You’re filthy.”
It was meant as an observation—but the minute the words are out, I hear how snotty they sound. He’s not offended, though. In fact, my statement has him laughing. The sound is rich and out of tune with the usual silence he exudes. I keep my mouth from falling open, but I watch him.
He leans across me and yanks the handle on my door before pushing it open. “I can do that,” I say. Honestly, I’m a little flustered, first from the laugh, second from the thoughtfulness, gruff as the execution was.
“I know.” He gets out of the truck and I follow. He throws his keys on a small table by the door, heading through the open space to the narrow hallway. I follow, stopping inside the kitchen only big enough for a small stove, fridge, and two-top bar table in dark wood.
The high metal stools paired with it show his artistic flare again.
“Make yourself comfortable.” He hands me a beer and disappears down the hallway to the bathroom.
I walk back into the main living area and look around like I did yesterday. The walls are blank, the white making the space open instead of closed off. The furniture is beautiful—each minimal piece its own work of art: the small wooden table looks reclaimed with its metal legs, the track lighting I didn’t notice yesterday, the speakers imbedded in each corner of the ceiling.
There are no photos, no mementos, nothing to identify this as Brooklyn’s house. Except for the workstation.
It’s meticulously organized, a long wooden table standing almost to my chest and spanning nearly half the length of the wall. An industrial-looking slatted metal board hangs on the wall behind the desk. A closer study
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