Page 105 of Roses in Summer

“Good. Make yourself useful and pour wine.”

I throw the cap at him and he laughs, looking up at me with a pleased look on his face. “I’m only doing this because I want a glass. So don’t think that I’m just going to follow all of your demands, okay?” I slide off the stool and round the counter to the fridge, where a bottle of white wine is chilling. Grabbing the pinot grigio, I cradle it against my chest and turn to the cabinet to grab two wine glasses.

“Those are for red wine,” he comments, eyes on me while he continues to chop.

“I’m aware, but I’m too short to reach the white ones without a stool, and I don’t feel like climbing. If you don’t like it, don’t drink it.” I shrug my shoulders, carrying the glasses and the wine back to the island to pour.

Concentrating on opening the bottle, I use the lever corkscrew to slice off the foil and uncork the wine, pouring a healthy amount into each glass. I slide his glass over before picking up mine and leaning back, taking a sip as I watch him work.

The rhythm of Lincoln’s chopping fills the kitchen, and I stare at his precise knife skills before he sets the cutting board and vegetables aside and rummages through my cabinets. Finding the pots, he grabs a sauté pan and stock pot and places them on the stove. He moves fluidly in the kitchen, drizzling olive oil with ease and frying the zucchini to a perfectly golden brown before transferring the cooked spaghetti directly into the sauté pan of zucchini. With a ladle, he transfers some of the starchy water into the pan and then finishes it with pecorino Romano. My kitchen smells like a beautiful amalgamation of garlic and lemon, nutty cheese, and fresh basil.

Lincoln sets a bowl of perfectly plated pasta in front of me, and I can’t help but exclaim at the presentation. “Wow.”

“It’s my job, Seraphina. Don’t be too impressed.”

“How can I not be? Most guys only know how to boil water or grill a well-done burger.”

“They should be ashamed,” he responds matter-of-factly, lifting his bowl and fork for a bite. He chews for a minute, considering the flavors. “Fresh parm would have been better, but it beats that shit pizza you would have gotten delivered.”

“It’s good pizza.” It’s not. It’s decent, at best. I twirl pasta with my fork, stabbing a piece of zucchini at the end and bringing it to my mouth. Flavors explode as I chew, and I can’t keep my moan of approval in. “But this is incredible.” I lower my fork for another bite, quickly bringing it to my lips.

Lincoln’s laugh has my eyes darting up, and I pause mid-bite at how damn happy he looks.

“What?” I say around a mouthful, covering my lips as I talk.

“You, ciern. I fucking love feeding you. I made enough for Olivia and Bianca when they get back.”

I swallow, bringing a napkin to my lips. “Thank you, Lincoln.”

“Don’t you know by now, ciern? For you, I’d do anything.”

—

I forced Lincoln to sit while I packed up the leftovers and cleaned the kitchen, citing the age-old adage of “you cooked, I clean” as a way of explanation. It didn’t take me long to wash and dry the pots or to load our dishes and silverware into the dishwasher. I glance at the clock on the microwave as I close the dishwasher. It’s not even eight at night, yet between the rain and everything else that’s happened recently, it feels much later.

I know that the moment we close ourselves in my room, we have to talk about Lincoln’s run-in with Mitch, what that means, and how he handled it. I’d like to stay in this bubble in the kitchen, but we can’t, and both Lincoln and I know it.

“Ready?”

I nod, wiping the last of the crumbs from the counter. Walking around the island, I lead Lincoln into my bedroom and shut the door behind us.

39

Lincoln

Seraphina’s energy is nervous as she paces across her room, a stark contrast to how relaxed she was in the shower and in the kitchen. I know why she is acting the way she is, but I still hate it.

Hate that there’s a presence between us, one that seems to always be there.

“Sit, ciern.”

“Stop ordering me.” Did I really ever think Seraphina was the meek Gregori sibling?

She stops mid-step and turns to me. “You shouldn’t have said anything to Mitch.”

“Why?” I cross my arms, leaning back on her bed with these stupid sweatpants riding up to my knees.

“Because Mitch is the type of person who, once antagonized, doubles down.”

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