Page 56 of Roses in Summer

But, to my surprise, he doesn’t bring either instance up.

“Do you want to dance?”

“With you?” I blurt out, and I’m instantly mortified. I feel my cheeks heat, surely turning an unattractive, splotchy red. Dancing with Lincoln would be a terrible idea, not the least because the pull I feel toward him is undeniable, and I have to constantly remind myself that he has a girlfriend.

An image of Gemma’s beautiful face assaults my mind, and I look away, unable to rid the memory of how well-suited Gemma and Lincoln are together. Shaking my head, I refocus on Lincoln.

His smirk is devastating, and it’s all I can do not to squirm under his gaze. “Yeah, with me, ciern. Come on.” Extending a hand, I look between his roughened palm and angelic face. The dichotomy between the two parts of his body is funny. His hand shows how hard he works, with scars and scrapes and callouses telling the story of his time in the kitchen. But his face? His face is almost too handsome to be real.

“I think it’s best that we don’t dance, Lincoln.”

“Why?”

Looking down at my drink, I study the pulp remnants from the lime J.R. squeezed. They float and sink, then swirl and twirl in the alcohol. “You know why.” My voice is soft, barely discernible over the loud beat of the music. “I should go find my sister. I came with her and her friends. I-it was great seeing you again.”

I chance a look at him, one last hit, raise my glass in a salute, and turn to walk away. His hand shoots out before I can move one step, stilling my body. Glancing over my shoulder, I suck in a breath at the expression painted across his features.

His face is a mosaic, a sculpture, a painting—every art medium captured and molded into one insanely beautiful display. He’s a livingDavid, and it almost hurts to look at him.

“Come on, Seraphina, what are you so scared of?”

So many things. But I don’t voice that thought. Instead, I look from Lincoln to my hand, not making any moves to dislodge his touch. He senses my grudging acceptance and closes his fingers, capturing me and making sure there is no escape.

As he tugs, gently guiding me up, I can’t help but wonder what events I just set into motion.

21

Lincoln

I don’t fucking dance.

I never have, and up until five minutes ago, I thought I never would.

But one glance at Seraphina’s plump lower lip captured between her teeth, and all I knew after this shit show of a week was that she was a balm.

It was a tough shift tonight, one that had not only me but also Diana floundering until the kitchen closed just forty minutes ago. I don’t know if there was something in the air at Garganello’s or if there’s a full moon tonight, but the brigade was inundated with change requests, allergen notifications, and short on supplies for constant pivots. My mood was black when I came through the kitchen doors earlier tonight, something that has never happened before, thanks to a call from my mother on the drive in.

I have a good relationship with my mom, great even. But as soon as she learned about my latest breakup with Gemma, there was no holding back the opinions that flowed through her like water. Everything was a contradiction. I was too old to keep dating around, but Gemma wasn’t the right one for me. I needed to date, but not too much because women don’t like players. When she told me that I should go to the doctor for a full panel STD test, I hung up on her with the promise of brunch during the week as long as she never asked me to get an STD test again.

She was annoyed by my response but accepted the invitation and my stipulation, nevertheless.

My mood went from tense to annoyed to a gaping black hole of anger, so much so that Franki forced me to step into the walk-in fridge to calm down so that I didn’t slice a hand off.

When the kitchen finally closed, and the knives were laid to rest, the only thing I wanted was to grab a beer from the bar, make the short drive home, and crash in my bed with no movement until tomorrow afternoon.

But that changed when I saw the long reddish-brown hair gleaming under the fluorescent lights and the tiny dark red dress that left my jaw hanging open. It reminded me of the dress from last weekend, though the color was lighter, and the bodice seemed to make her already small waist impossibly tinier. I didn’t miss the way J.R. was eyeing her, like she was his next conquest, or the way the other guys at the bar were staring at her ass as she stood there, waiting for a drink.

Like the opposite end of a magnet, I was pulled toward her and didn’t think about my recently discarded relationship, the contradictory words of my mother, or the brutal night in the kitchen. All I saw, all I wanted to see, was her. That she didn’t know I was behind her, watching her for five minutes while she surveyed J.R.’s movements, was sweeter because I saw every inch of Seraphina unguarded and vulnerable.

Even when we first met, her guard was never truly down; she hid her emotions as best she could. It pissed me off, but I accepted it. I didn’t want to accept it anymore.

She’s been on my mind constantly; the way she tried her fucking hardest to prevent me from talking in Grey’s kitchen, even though she had no idea what I was going to say has played like a bad comedy reel in my mind for days. I was annoyed when she left that kitchen, but more than ready to track her down.

Her showing up here tonight is like divine intervention from fate.

Or maybe it’s just her sister meddling in her life. Either way, I’m not complaining that she’s here.

Maybe it’s too soon, too suspicious to think of Seraphina as anything more than the reappearance of someone from my past, especially after I just ended things with a woman with whom I shared a fucked up semblance of a life. But if I was intrigued by Seraphina four years ago, I’m fucking captivated by her now, and I can’t seem to stop myself from reaching for her.

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