The Understory by Elizabeth Leiknes Read Free Book Online Page A

kind of something no child should have to endure.
    So now, when she stepped back from the bulletin board to examine the treasure box picture, it looked less like a cartoon and more real, as if she could reach out and touch the carved wood, as if it really did hold secrets. And when she held the number one foam tightly in her hand, she remembered the advice she’d received via fortune cookie: Everyone gets one chance to do something great. Yours is coming soon.
    And that’s when Story Easton knew that this would be her story. She would prove her mother wrong, and finally accomplish something that mattered. She took one last look at the picture of Cooper and his dad, and before she could leave them, before she could break her gaze, she made the promise she knew she had to make.
    But mid-promise, she heard a loud banging sound coming from downstairs, which shook Cooper’s wall of dreams, sending the giant number one and the ripped-out picture of the treasure box floating end over end, until they landed like feathers on the carpet. Story picked up both the giant number one and treasure box picture and promptly tacked them back up on the bulletin board.
    And with a sudden sense of purpose, Story Easton tore out of the room a transformed woman, only to run into a solid man standing in the hallway.
    “Shit!” she screamed.
    “Shit!” he hollered. “You okay?” He extended his hands, as if to catch her.
    Knocked back, Story took a good look at her victim. As it turned out, he wasn’t a victim at all, but a thirty-something man, who managed to be handsome and scruffy at the same time. Dazed, Story caught herself staring at his strong forearms, his lean frame, and then, so as not to let him notice her ogling, his eyes. But they were no help. Pale blue, they were the color of the ocean on a gray day, beautiful and stormy.
    “I’m fine. Hello,” Story finally said, unaware of how flirty her inflection was until she heard the “o” stretch out and echo its way down the hallway. “Sorry, I didn’t see you,” she said, but when she tried to back away from him, she realized she had somehow snagged the waist of her pajama bottom around a tool hanging from his tool belt.
    The two of them danced for moment in an awkward series of movements, until the man smiled, raised his eyebrows, and in a quiet voice said, “You’re stuck on my big hammer.”
    She rolled her eyes but softened when the stranger said, “Here,” and tenderly separated the two of them using the little claw of his much smaller hammer.
    Story was still trying not to ogle. “You look just like . . .”
    “That guy. I know.”
    Nice voice. Quiet yet confident. God, nice teeth, too , she thought when he smiled. He’s perfect. How despicable. Secretly, Story hoped he’d burp, use a double negative, or act servile—anything to make him seem less attractive—but he didn’t. Instead, his tall frame, unfaltering, stood still and attentive, his T-shirt calling attention to his lean biceps, strong from real work probably, not from fake workouts at a trendy gym. His Carhart work pants were clean and wrinkle-free, as if he wore them to do handiwork and then out to dinner.
    Then Story raised her hopes. Maybe he smells. But no luck there either. When Story subtly leaned forward and took in a breath, she inhaled a manly cocktail: part hardware store (complete with the slightly dirty smell of little drawers full of nails and screws), part freshly-showered clean, and part maple-cured bacon, which he probably cooked himself. God, yummy enough to eat. And he cooks!
    And truth be told, he did look like that guy , if that guy was a Greek god with a tool belt. His light brown hair, cut short, lay close to his head in gentle swirls, and when bits of sunlight entered through the hallway window, specks of amber streaked his hair with gold. What the hell am I doing? she thought. These are observations made by the predictable heroine in a cheesy beach novel. No wonder I can’t