Page 58 of Roses in Summer

“There is no one else, ciern. Gemma and I broke up last week.”

Her eyes widen, though not with pleasure. No, the emotion coming through is horror, as though I told her I had just killed someone. “No. No, you didn’t. That’s—Lincoln. Why did you break up?” She starts to shake her head, moving it so rapidly that my hands fall from her face. Stepping closer, I latch onto her shoulders.

“Seraphina, we’ve been growing apart for the last six months. Am I going to say that seeing you didn’t make me realize that I wanted you back in my life permanently? No. But am I going to lie and say that this breakup was because I saw you? Also no. Gemma hated my career, hated my friends, and wanted me to fall in line with what she wanted when she wanted it. And, in turn, I probably made her miserable. I’m no prince, Seraphina, and I did what I should have done six months ago.”

I watch as Seraphina processes my words, her throat working to swallow whatever questions that arise. “That doesn’t change anything between us, Lincoln. We’re going to see each other a lot with the wedding, and Ava and Greyson, and I don’t—can’t—have it be awkward between us.” She takes another step back, eyes downcast and posture rigid. “I’m going to go. Just—” she cuts herself off, inhaling deeply before continuing, “Bye, Lincoln.”

Turning on her heel, she starts to run.

22

Lincoln

Shaking my head, I follow Seraphina’s path, practically sprinting across the dance floor and through the side door where only employees are permitted.

I spot her running down the hall, faster than I would have thought possible in those heels she’s wearing, and I’m surprised by the amount of speed she’s picked up.

“Seraphina, where the hell are you going?” I call out behind her, walking as fast as I can without breaking into a run.

“Oh my god,” she squeaks, picking up the pace as she bursts through the exit down the hall.

Following her through the door, I step into the alleyway, looking around for Seraphina. At first, I don’t see her, and panic starts to rise in my throat that she somehow made it out of the alley without my knowledge and left, forcing us to delay the conversation we need to have.

My eyes sweep over the space once, twice, before finding Seraphina hunched over, breathing hard next to a stack of crates.

I allow her a moment of feigned solitude to process whatever emotions are ramming into her.

But a moment is all I’ll give her.

Keeping my footsteps light, I approach her slowly, conscious of just how much she seems to be freaking out right now.

“Seraphina, are you okay?”

She remains bent over, hands on her knees, as she breathes in and out. “Yes, doing great.”

“Sera—”

“Lincoln, I said I’m fine.” She stands up, whirling around on me with a finger pointed in my direction. “I’m fine, okay? So go back inside and have a good night.”

“Well, I’m not fucking fine, Seraphina. What about that?”

Stunned, she rears back, staring at my face before dropping her eyes. “What do you want me to say, Lincoln? You just broke up with your girlfriend, telling me I’m partly to blame. How thefuckdo you want me to deal with that, Lincoln?” She spits her words like venom. “We have to spend the next however many months around each other. Can’t we just be cordial? Distant? I’ve gone through too many emotions in the last five hours to deal with you right now, and I need you to leave me alone.”

“Is that what you really want? You want me to leave you out here by yourself and go on with my night—with my fucking life—and pretend you don’t exist? If you tell me that’s what you really want, I’ll do it, but I don’t believe you for a fucking second, little thorn.”

“Do not call me that,” she seethes, her eyes looking up to meet mine again. “Don’t you dare call me that.”

“Or what, ciern?” I enunciate the Polish translation of her nickname, knowing it will increase her agitation.

“God, you are so aggravating.” She huffs, her arms crossing over her chest in an effort to close herself off from me. The move pushes her chest out, offering it to me on a silver fucking platter, and it’s everything I can do not to stare.

“And you’re too fucking beautiful, ciern.” My words seem to antagonize her because before I know what’s happening, five feet of angry Italian woman is flying across the short space separating us, fists raised and tears streaming down her face.

The thrumming of her fists against my chest feels like flutters, but I can tell by how she’s holding her hands that she’s never punched someone before and that her fingers are going to hurt with how hard she’s squeezing.

Trying not to hurt her, I press her hands against me, stilling the wildcat in my arms.

“Please, Sera. I need you to calm down.”

---