Page 38 of Roses in Summer

“Still loving the kitchen?”

“Yeah.” He smiles, dropping his arm from the chair to lean forward and rest his forearms against his thighs. “Though it’s nice to be on the brigade instead of stocking the walk-ins and washing dishes.”

My eyebrows rise, feigning surprise, though I’m not shocked to hear that he’s moved up in his career. Lincoln had always been determined, almost single-mindedly so, when he wanted something. “That’s amazing. Your parents must be so proud of you. ”

He shrugs, letting his shoulders hunch, then fall in a nonchalant gesture. “They don’t love my work hours but are happy if I’m happy. What are you doing back in Jersey?”

“I’m at Marymount for my master’s in library science.”

“I guess you worked in the library that summer, huh?”

I nod my head, looking away as high school memories—memories of Mitch—bombard me. Reaching for my drink, I take a long sip to dispel the thoughts slamming into me.

“Hmm,” he responds, nodding like I just confirmed something for him. “Are you working at Marymount this summer?”

I shrug, putting my drink down as I respond, “Maybe. I have an interview at the library for a graduate assistant position. Do you live in the area?”

He shakes his head, looking down as he responds, “No, my girlfriend and I live thirty minutes north of here, closer to the city.”

I swallow the bile threatening to rise in my throat and take another sip of my drink. I’m not surprised he has a girlfriend, but I also didn’t expect it to hurt to hear.

“You—”

“How—” we say simultaneously, and I swallow a nervous laugh, looking at him under my lashes as I try to work out what to say next. It was never awkward between us. When we first met, it was like a rush of words formed on my lips, begging to be released to Lincoln.

Specifically to Lincoln.

But now, an uncomfortable silence settles around us despite the noise of the crowded bar.

“What were you saying?” I ask, willing the awkwardness away.

“How’s Mitch? Is he still a fucking asshole ordering you around?”

Narrowing my eyes at his question, my blood starts to heat, rising with the first spark of annoyance. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t spoken to him in four years.” And it’s true. After I filed a report and took out a restraining order against Mitch, I changed my number, deleted my social media, and cut off contact with everyone from my hometown.

“Hmm,” he hums again. The first time he did it five minutes ago, it sounded contemplative but soothing, a sound I didn’t mind. But, unlike five minutes ago, now I’m annoyed.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Hmm?” I ask, mimicking his tone.

“Nothing, ciern, calm down. I forgot how fucking prickly you are.” He sighs, running a hand over his face. My heart pounds at the use of my old nickname.

Swallowing against the wave of nostalgia, I whisper, “Don’t call me that,” so low that I’m not sure my voice is audible. “I’m not—oh.” I stop short, not finishing my train of thought as a blur of long limbs and dark hair tangles around Lincoln, clinging to him like he’s a life raft and she’s flailing in uncharted water.

“Sorry I’m late. The shoot dragged on, and I got here when I could,” a husky voice says. Lincoln’s hands grip the tornado’s wrists, prying them off his body and forcing her to back up. I can’t help but stare at the woman’s angelic face: large, bright-blue eyes, long black hair, and perfectly pale skin. Next to Lincoln, she is a flawless complement to his darker skin, green eyes, and masculine features.

Looking away from Lincoln, she turns her face toward me, hitting me with the full force of her beauty as she stares at me. Under her scrutiny, I feel even more self-conscious in my stained dress. She tilts her head with a smile that can only be described as brittle. “Oh, hi, congratulations. You and Greg must be so excited for the wedding.”

Who the hell is Greg?I think, ready to open my mouth and ask that very question when Lincoln lets out a very annoyed sigh. “This isn’t Ava, Gemma. This is her younger sister, Seraphina. She’s in grad school at Marymount. And it’s Greyson, not Greg. Seraphina, this is Gemma, my girlfriend.”

Maybe I’m imagining it, but there was a hesitance after her name, a delay in the completed introduction. I offer a smile, waving at the stunning woman like an idiot.

“Oh. Sorry, you look the same as her.” She shrugs, not sounding very sorry. She turns her attention to Lincoln, not bothering with pleasantries, and leans down to whisper something in his ear. At the dismissal, I look over my shoulder, wondering where my sisters are and why they’ve taken so long in the bathroom.

I try not to listen to Lincoln and Gemma or stare at the picture they make, but it’s hard. I hear a whisper of the conversation, Lincoln’s angry tone and Gemma’s dismissive laugh, like whatever it is he’s annoyed about doesn’t actually matter.

“Excuse me,” I mumble, not expecting anyone to hear me as I push my chair out and round the table in search of the bathroom and salvation.

15

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