Page 30 of Roses in Summer

He could have taken the car and laughed with his girl in the front seat, but instead, he lied and claimed nothing happened, saving her from the humility of publicly declaring their relationship. Hell, I’d be embarrassed by the overgrown, overbearing Italian too.

I can admit that it was a dick move, a careless and senseless bet, but I can’t regret it when it landed me a spot in one of the most high-profile and respected restaurants in the city.

I was a cocky college student that first day, but I never complained about washing dishes in the back of the restaurant because I knew, like I know the blood rolling through my veins, that I’d be on the brigade someday. It took a long time, but I finally worked up to one of three vegetable chefs last year.

My phone vibrates again, pulling me out of my memories. “Leave me the fuck alone,” I mumble, keeping my eyes trained on the way my knife slices through the zucchini.

“Simmons, I am going to break that phone if it goes off again,” Diana, the other vegetable chef on the brigade tonight, shouts at me.

“Sorry, Di. I’ll silence it.” Laying down my knife, I grab my phone and unlock the screen. Based on the number of times the phone’s gone off, I’m unsurprised to find two missed calls and a few text messages in my notifications. They’re probably from Gemma bitching me out for ending the conversation earlier. I don’t bother checking who they’re from; instead, I set the “do not disturb” option. “See.” I hold the phone for Diana to view my screen. “It’s off. Will you stop giving me shit now?”

“Only if you finish cutting those zucchinis.”

“Such a hard-ass,” I mumble under my breath, reaching over to rinse my hands before picking my knife back up to finish the first part of my preparation.

“I heard that,” Diana’s voice sings like she finds me amusing. I don’t suppress the smile that breaks out from the shit Di and I give each other; I fucking love it. I live for the bullshit in the kitchen, the quick-fire orders, the time-driven tasks. Fucking around with my coworkers before we leave the kitchen to shoot the shit over a beer is half of what gets me through the absolute pandemonium each night.

“Okay, everyone, listen up,” Franki calls, walking into the back of house armed with papers and her binder. “We have some shifting up tonight. James, you’re sous-chef tonight. Vivienne, I need you on butcher. Oscar, Vienna, Daniel, you three stay on pastry, obviously. Sammy, you’re also staying as chef de cuisine. We have a full house and need this shit to run smoothly. I’m sure you all see the mess in the walk-in and vegetable pantry. Our supplies came late tonight, but we’re dealing with it. If you need anything, call Sammy, and she’ll work with Ray to get you what you need. Got it?”

I look over at Sammy, the chef de cuisine or kitchen manager, and see that she’s as calm as she always is in her Crocs, cat-eye glasses, and white chef’s coat.

Nodding my head along with the rest of the kitchen, I let the anticipation pour over me. I operate best in madness, and I’m eager for the night to start.

“Good. The first seating is in two hours, so let’s get our shit together and get ready for a good night. Family meal is downstairs; make sure you eat before service starts because it’s going to be hectic tonight. Now, for the specials.” Franki goes into the details of each of the five specials offered tonight, paying close attention to how she expects each to be prepared. From knife cuts to butchering techniques, she leaves no question hanging as she delivers the instructions.

When she finishes, she hands each of us a menu and races to the front of house, where she must give a similar speech to the waitstaff, bartenders, and hosts setting up for the evening.

Losing myself in the orders given to me, I work on the julienne on every vegetable on my station, separating them by type. The mindless task allows my mind to wander back to my phone, and curiosity takes over. People rarely call me, probably because I only pick up if the phone reads one of three names: Gemma, Mom, or Dad.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

Slicing through the remaining vegetables with a little more force than necessary, I let my mind take me back to when my phone would be on fucking fire from the amount of use due to talking to a pretty girl with long brown hair and sad, quiet eyes.

Fucking Seraphina Gregori, the little thorn who embedded herself so expertly into my DNA before extracting herself like it was a life-or-death situation. I’ll never forget the six months I spent goddamn obsessed with the sound of her soft voice. It went nowhere—be it age, bad timing, or destiny—but I still get phantom memories, small moments that remind me of her.

Four years ago, my phone going off so frequently would have excited me, giving me shots of adrenaline and anticipation of what Seraphina wanted. Now, dread pools in my stomach since the last time I had five missed notifications, they were from Gemma telling me that she used my credit card to book a vacation for us and five of her closest friends. To make it worse, I couldn’t even go because I had work.

“Simmons, take a twenty-minute break and then get your ass back up here,” Sammy calls from behind me, interrupting my musings.

“Got it.” Placing my knife down, I look over at Diana. “You need anything, Di?”

She doesn’t stop her prep work and doesn’t bother to look at me as she responds, “Yes, for you to go on break so I can go after you.”

“Hard-ass,” I repeat, wiping my hands on my dish towel. Grabbing my phone, I make my way out of the kitchen and jog down the hall that leads to the employee locker room, changing areas, and break room.

I don’t unlock my phone until I’m over the threshold and in front of my locker. I ate before I came and have no need for family meal, but I won’t turn down the opportunity for a break before shit gets wild on the brigade.

I’m surprised to see two missed calls from Greyson and three texts from the group chat I share with Dante and Grey.

Dante: Does Linc know yet?

Grey: No.

Dante: Oh shit, I know before Cheffy? Someone’s going to be pissed.

I roll my eyes at Dante’s nickname for me. He watchedBelow Deckwith Celeste, and the crew called the chef “Cheffy.” They’ve been doing it to Ava and me ever since, and it annoys me every time.

Letting my fingers fly over the screen, I don’t hesitate to respond.

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