Page 37 of Roses in Summer

Sucking in a breath, I watch as Lincoln leans down, invading my space for the first time in years. I try to keep my eyes open, but the feeling of his cheek against my skin forces them to close, a hypnotic trance coming over me and burning my lungs.

Belatedly, I realize the burning is not from Lincoln but from my instinct to hold my breath, and I release it, sucking in air and the warm scent of his cologne.

“Seraphina,” he whispers against my ear, his lips grazing the lobe, though I doubt he did that intentionally.

I jump at his voice, pushing out a high-pitched “Hi, Lincoln” in response. Before I can recover, say something in a normal tone, or die of mortification, he stands and walks away as though that ten-second interaction meant nothing to him.

Which, in all fairness, is quite possibly true. I’ve avoided all conversation of Lincoln for a long time. Any mention of his name, and I would zone out, too guilty and disgusted with myself to really allow the conversation to flow into me, just over me, in the hopes that one day, I could face him again and not act like a simpering idiot.

Today, apparently, is not that day.

One look at his jawline and tattooed body, and I’m already fighting for air, bursting from interest. It’s embarrassing and obvious if Bianca’s current elbow nudges are anything to go by.

Sighing, I turn to face my very annoying sister. “Please, stop elbowing me. I’m fine.” Giving her a hard stare, I shift my head, letting my hair fall in front of my left shoulder to block my face. “Seriously, B. I’m okay. I saw him, and I didn’t die. Now, I can go on with my night—with my life—and deal with seeing him without the anxiety of the unknown.”

She doesn’t respond, not having the benefit of long hair to shield her from nosy eyes, but she levels me with a look I know says, “Don’t bullshit me.”

“Sera, when do your classes start?” Serena breaks in, ending the one-sided conversation between me and my younger sister.

Ripping my gaze from Bianca, I smile, thankful for the reprieve. “Classes start next month. I have advanced library sciences, archival studies, and record management, I think.”

“Is Dr. Harrington your professor for any of those?”

My eyebrows furrow at the mention of the name; it’s familiar, but I can’t seem to place it. “No, Drs. Smithford, Wilson, and Brown. Who’s Dr. Harrington?”

“The head librarian. She’s in charge of all the curriculum creation and maintaining the library. I’m pretty sure you’ll have her at some point in the program since she likes to teach at least one course a semester.”

Recognition ignites, and I can’t help the smile that tugs on my lips. “Of course. I have an interview with her next week. There was an opening for a graduate assistant in the library, and I made it to the final round of interviews.”

“You’re working in the library, Sera?”

Turning to look at Ava, I shrug. “I’m not sure yet, but I would like to.”

“Nerds,” Bianca mumbles under her breath, though the word is said with affection, not malice. I’m about to respond when I feel eyes on me, cutting off any words I may have said.

Biting down on my lip, I chance a look at Lincoln to see if that’s where the feeling came from, but he’s distracted, fully engrossed in his conversation with Wolf.

Quickly looking away, I clench my hands under the table, twisting them together to curb the irrational disappointment.

Movement beside me stirs me from my thoughts. “I’m going to the bathroom. Do you want to come?”

Shaking my head at my sister, I reach for my now-watery drink and take a sip, watching her follow Ava toward the bathroom. With my eyes trained on them, I jolt in surprise when a hand grazes my shoulder, causing me to spill droplets of purply liquid on my dress.

Sighing, I set my drink down and reach for the cocktail napkin on the table. “I’m going to have to throw this dress away and buy CeCe a replacement.”

“A shame; I like it.” I pause, my hand hovering inches from my stomach and the stains that seem to be enlarging. Lincoln’s voice flows over me, but instead of cooling my skin, it heats it up, boiling my body until I’m sure my face is as red as my outfit.

“Hi, Lincoln,” I squeak, repeating my words from thirty minutes ago. I place the napkin down, an acknowledgment that this stain is a lost cause and I shouldn’t waste time blotting when I can speak to Lincoln.

“You’ve got a little something on your dress,” his voice teases, and I roll my eyes at his tone, slipping into a sarcastic familiarity that I haven’t experienced in a long time.

“You don’t say? Where?” I hold the bodice of my dress out as though I’m trying to locate the spot. Dropping it after a few seconds, I shift in my chair, allowing myself to face him head-on.

His face lights up with a rueful smile, and my heart flutters, beating wildly against my chest. Clearing my throat, I look down at his arm resting against the table. His sleeves are rolled up, showcasing the massive amount of ink he has stitched into his skin. My eyes snag on a small fleur-de-lis on his forearm, almost completely camouflaged amongst his other art. “How are you, Seraphina?”

Moving my eyes up to his face, I lean back against the arm of my chair, settling in. “I’m doing well. How are you doing?”

“Busy, but good.” I nod, accepting his answer.

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