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

mid-turn so we are face-to-face instead of shoulder-to-shoulder.
    “How do you figure?”
    I cross my arms, slightly chilled by the small amount of spray off the water. Whether he notices, or just can’t hear me, Brooks steps closer, blocking me from the water and offering me some of his body heat. It forces me to tilt my head back and look directly up at him.
    “You have all of this control.” I uncross my arms long enough to motion to him, hands still in his pockets. “I just can’t imagine you throwing tantrums, saying bad words, breaking a paint jar or trashing a canvas.”
    There’s that faint smile again. “I’ve never thrown a dinner plate in someone’s lap, if that’s what you mean.”
    My cheeks heat, and I look down at my toes, lifting them out of the sand and dropping them again. And then I laugh, shaking my head. “Like I said, you’re not temperamental.”
    “I broke ninety days of nicotine abstinence just to see if it would help me clear my head so I could paint.”
    I glance up at him. “Did it?”
    The intensity returns, and he looks straight at me before he shakes his head. “I don’t know—I never finished the cigarette because something more appealing than nicotine came about, and I haven’t let her go.”
    He turns and starts back, slowing until I catch up. We don’t speak while we walk this time, and for once, I have no questions. I shouldn’t feel this way—flattered and interested and… whatever else is rolling through me right now. But I do. I want to stay here, on Brooklyn’s beach, staring at the ocean and watching him watch me while we figure each other out.
    When we get back to his house, dinner is just arriving. He answers the door and I head back to use the restroom and wash my hands. I meet him on the patio, and he already has cartons spread out, chopsticks resting on a plate in front of my chair. The same chair which now has a sweatshirt on it.
    “It’s cold,” is all he says, digging into one of the cartons. I sit down, slipping the sweatshirt over my head, feeling like a schoolgirl when I breathe in, drawing Brooklyn all the way into my lungs. If he notices, he doesn’t comment.
    The sleeves hang well beyond my hands; I roll them back before straightening, crossing my feet at the ankles and reaching forward, taking the plate Brooks has loaded with food.
    “I’m eating more than I ever have—even still, I don’t think I can finish all of this.”
    He swallows his bite. “I can.”
    We eat in silence for a few minutes. I take the beer he offers me, oddly pleased with the bitter taste. “Are you and Hunter doing anything interesting?”
    I carefully fork up some rice with a piece of broccoli, sliding it between my lips and chewing. Brooks shakes his head, scooping in more food and chasing it with beer.
    “My turn.”
    I wipe my lips before placing my napkin back on my lap. “Your turn for what?”
    “You never answered me earlier. I came through with dinner, now it’s your turn.” He leans back, his beer in his hand, his plate near to empty of food. “Why San Diego and not Princeton?”
    I wait for the ache—the longing I felt even days ago when I realized I was in a place I didn’t choose, when I thought my future was bleak and ordinary, hanging in front of me exactly as my mother planned and I always feared. Except… those feelings don’t surface, not even when I say what I didn’t to Nala that first day we hung out.
    “I actually wanted Yale the most.” I set my chopsticks down and take another sip of beer before looking at him. “Princeton is good, and it’s growing in ranking and prestige, but Yale is always ranked nationally as one of the best universities. Since they have been around longer, a degree from Yale is just that much better.”
    He raises his brows. “Is that what matters? Prestige?”
    His voice isn’t accusatory, but I feel like there may be a hint of derision in it. I set my bottle down and fold my hands together. “When I