Page 65 of Roses in Summer

“I want to rip him limb from goddamn limb for the pain he gave you. I won’t say I understand everything you’re saying because, honestly? My mind is going to the worst possible outcomes, and it makes me fucking livid. When you got back with that fuckhead,” he sneers, not bothering to say Mitch’s name. “I was mad, fucking livid. And then, when I saw how he treated you at that barbecue, I couldn’t understand why someone as smart as you would allow that behavior. I want to know everything, Seraphina. Every detail so that if I ever see that motherfucker again, he’ll know exactly why I’m going to kill him.”

I shake my head at his words, not ready to admit that Mitch’s treatment of me was the least of his infractions. “You’re not killing anyone, Lincoln.”

He scoffs like my statement is absurd. “We’re going to talk more about this later, okay? Now isn’t the time; I get that. But we’re going to talk, and you’re going to listen, Seraphina. And then, you’re going to tell me what he did— No, don’t shake your head. I’m asking for the truth. Do you understand?”

“Linc—”

“Do you understand?” he cuts me off, though his voice is still soft. Sucking in another gulp of air, I nod, silently agreeing to his decree. “Good. Now, let me help you grab some herbs so that your mom doesn’t think that you hiding out here is total bullshit.”

I don’t hold in the laugh that bubbles out of me, letting it fill the glasshouse and replace the anger Lincoln just released into the air. Over a comment that wasn’t even that funny but was one hundred percent true.

Lincoln’s mouth pulls into a smirk, amusement evident in his gaze. “I missed that sound.”

It takes a minute for me to sober, for the laughter to die out, but once it does, a heavy weight hangs between us. I don’t allow myself to be pulled under again like I was in the alley behind Garganello’s. Instead, I step away and feel the loss of Lincoln’s hands intimately.

Striding to the flower cart resting against one glass wall, I pick up a basket and shears and immediately start gathering basil and parsley. Even though I’m an emotional mess, I make sure not to press down on the leaves or pluck more than necessary.

Once I have all the herbs that dinner can handle, I set the shears down and turn back to Lincoln, surprised to see an armful of tomatoes cradled in his arms like a newborn.

He nods toward the flower cart. “Can you bring me a basket?”

“Here, there’s space in my basket.” I rearrange the basil and parsley, shifting them to one side of the wicker basket so that there’s plenty of room for the small harvest. Lincoln holds his arms out, and the tomatoes tumble in, weighing down the container in my hands. Though I’m more than capable of holding the five pounds of produce, Lincoln grabs the basket from my hands and assumes the weight.

With his free hand, he reaches out to move the hair hanging loose behind my back forward, letting it drape over my shoulder and conceal the markings on my neck.

“Come on, let’s head in.” He tilts his head toward the door, wordlessly encouraging me to lead him out of the greenhouse and back to the house. I take his cue, walking quickly to the exit and down the path.

I’m not sure how long we’ve been outside—maybe fifteen minutes at most—but I’m surprised by the scene that greets us when we walk back inside.

My mom, sisters, Liv, CeCe, and Serena are assembled around the kitchen island, glasses of red wine in each of their hands. That’s not surprising.

What’s shocking is that Greyson is dressed in a semi-constructed suit in the center of the kitchen, and my dad is hovering around him, putting pins and chalk markings on the cuffs and arms of the jacket.

I feel Lincoln the moment he steps into the kitchen, not because I have a sixth sense but because he bangs into me since I’m standing in the middle of the doorway.

“What exactly is going on?” Lincoln whispers, and I don’t miss the shock woven in his voice.

Without looking over my shoulder, I explain, “My grandfather, Dad’s dad, was a tailor, and my dad grew up sewing and making clothes. A few years ago, he started making men’s clothing again as a hobby, says it ‘relaxes him’ after being in depositions or trial.” What I don’t say is that the stress of reviewing the testimony and witness statements of the Clown Killer nearly killed him, and this was the outlet he chose to relieve his stress. Swallowing thickly, I continue, “My parents are always inundated with work, cases, and clients. But, somehow, he’s carved out some time for himself to pursue a hobby that gives him purpose outside of his job and role as Dad. He made my brother a suit when he came home from the Marines, and he told Greyson he would make him one too.” My dad’s construction isn’t necessarily good; it’s actually quite terrible. But who are we to tell him he can’t pursue a passion project if it makes him happy?

As long as he doesn’t delude himself into thinking he has a chance at winningProject Runway, there’s no reason to critique his work.

“Don’t most people buy cars for their midlife crisis?”

“I guess this is a less expensive option.” I laugh, biting down on my lip as my five-foot-five father grabs a step stool to measure Greyson’s shoulders. The heaviness from the greenhouse fully dissipates, leaving amusement over this scenario in its wake.

“I didn’t expect this when Ava invited us over. She said they wanted to have a conversation with the bridal party.”

I think over his words, wondering what my sister wants to tell us. I assume it has to do with specifics of her wedding, though, with Ava, it may be a proclamation that they eloped at city hall. “That’s the thing about the Gregori household; you never know what’s going to happen.”

No sooner do the words leave my mouth than Grey sneezes, causing his body to jolt and my father to stab him with the pin in his hand.

“Ow, fuck.” Greyson grunts, his face pulling into a grimace from the unexpected jab.

My dad huffs at Greyson’s response, smacking him right above where the pin is still lodged into his arm. “Language, young man. For shame,” my dad scolds.

“Dad, can you get the mini knife out of my fiancé’s arm?”

“It’s more like a needle, like in a doctor’s office,” Bianca chimes in, taking a large sip of wine.

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