Page 55 of Roses in Summer

Bianca has the decency to look sheepish. “In my defense, I thought you’d say no if I told you.”

“Obviously,” I grumble, following her and her friends to the line outside the restaurant. Unlike last week, we don’t breeze through the VIP entrance and must wait while bouncers check IDs and hand out wristbands to ensure that all patrons are over twenty-one.

When we finally get inside, where it’s already packed, there’s no table like last week, no place to sit and order a drink or have a conversation at normal volume. This week, we’re with the masses, pressed against each other while we figure out which of the two bars to approach and what drink to get.

“I could kill you,” I mumble to Bianca, knowing that she probably won’t hear me, but saying it anyway. I watch as she and this new group of friends come to some understanding, their heads nodding in confirmation, before Bianca grabs my wrists and attempts to pull me toward the dance floor.

“Come on; we’re going to dance first,” she yells over the music, a dance remix of “Pierre” by Ryn Weaver.

Pulling my arm from her grip, I shake my head in refusal. “No, you go out. I’m going to get a drink.” To myself, I add,because I’m going to need it to deal with being here tonight.

Bianca eyes me, keeping her hand outstretched. “You’re sure?”

“Go. You wanted to go out tonight, so dance. I’ll get a drink and hang out.” Not allowing her a moment to respond, I walk to the bar in the far corner of the main room, as far away from the crowd as possible. Just like last week, I’m struck by how beautiful the space is and how the modern décor mixes with old-school charm to create an eclectic, chic space. The exposed pipes in the ceiling mix seamlessly with the brick walls, green velvet couches, and brass pendants and chandeliers.

Even the bar is an eclectic mix of new and old; mismatched stools line the heavy mahogany bar, and the back bar looks like a perfect match to the front. The glasses lining the shelves are all mismatched: some are colorful coups, others are patterned martini glasses, and no beer mug matches. I notice dishes set in front of some of the patrons, all are mismatched china and contrasting patterns. In a place like New York, where everything is refined and cultivated, Garganello’s is this otherworldly rustic modern chic that shouldn’t work but somehow does.

I’m so lost in my appraisal that I don’t realize the bartender is standing in front of me, waiting for my attention with an amused look on his face. He clears his throat, calling my attention away from the silly-looking glass collection. “Can I get you something?”

“A tequila club, extra lime.” He nods, quickly reaching down to begin making the drink. I watch him scoop ice into the glass, squeezing lime onto the ice chips before adding the tequila and club soda. I shoot my eyes up in surprise at his sequence and can’t help but ask him about it.

“You put lime over the ice? I thought you squeeze lime at the end of the drink?”

The bartender pushes my drink toward me, and I reach into my bag, searching for my wallet. Pulling out the small billfold, I snap it open and freeze at the hand on my arm. “Put the lady’s on my tab, J.R. I’ll take a Peroni.” My eyes close at the familiar, deep voice beside me.

Shaking my head, I deny the offer. “No, it’s fine. I have money; I don’t need you to put it on his tab.”

J.R. smirks, lifting a shoulder as he reaches into a fridge below the bar to grab the beer. “It’s covered, doll.” I wince at the pejorative term, not at all pleased to be reduced to a “doll.”

“Careful with this one, man. She has thorns. Isn’t that right, ciern?”

I close my eyes at the nickname, though being called a thorn is marginally better than being referred to as a doll.

“Here you go, man. You staying late tonight?” J.R. laughs as he pushes Lincoln’s beer and my cocktail toward us, resting his elbows on the bar as though he’s settling in for a long conversation. If it wasn’t rude, and if I didn’t need to thank Lincoln for buying me a drink, I’d leave while they strike up a conversation.

As if reading my mind, Lincoln’s hand snaps out, moving to my elbow and keeping me in place. I look down at where we’re connected, swallowing thickly at the intimacy of the gesture. Reaching forward, I grab my drink and take a healthy sip, savoring the coolness of the liquid and the punch of tequila.

I look up at the owner of the arm, not at all surprised to find his attention on me.

His face lights up with a rueful smile as soon as our eyes meet, and my heart flutters, beating wildly against my chest. Clearing my throat, I look down at his arm to gain some composure. His sleeves are rolled up, showcasing the massive amount of ink he has stitched into his skin. “How are you, Seraphina?”

Moving my eyes up to his face, I twist my straw, unable to keep from moving under his perusal. “I’m doing well. How are you doing?”

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

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares at me like he’s simultaneously looking through me and undressing me. In my too-short dress, the one I thought made me look pretty when we left the house, I feel exposed, as though every inch of my skin is on display, every secret highlighted. The corset-style scarlet dress shows off what little curves I have while giving the illusion that I have a semblance of cleavage.

Whatever curves were hereditary in the family seemed to have skipped me because both Ava and Bianca had above-average boobs, while I was gifted a perky yet small chest.

Clearing my throat, I fill the charged silence. “The semester starts in a couple of weeks. I’ll be a graduate assistant in the library.” He doesn’t need this information, but I offer it anyway.

“I know.”

“I—”

“Do—”

We speak at the same time, both of us stopping mid-sentence. Biting down on my lip, I tilt my head, silently begging him to continue. I expect him to bring up our encounter last week, either the one at this very restaurant or in Ava and Grey’s kitchen. I want to ask him what he was going to say, what was so important that regardless of how many times I stopped him from talking, he kept trying to interject.

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