Page 95 of Roses in Summer

“Hmm,” my mom hums, looking at me with a statement I can’t quite understand in her eyes.

“Mamo, if you have something to say, just say it.” I sigh, dropping my fork and knife and leaning back against my seat.

“We love the Grgeoris, and Seraphina is a sweet girl, but shouldn’t you two be on the same page with what you are or are not telling each other’s family? It seems a little strange if they don’t know.”

“Ava knows, Grey knows, Bianca knows. Hell, I’m sure that when I was at their house a week ago, we were damn obvious about it.”

“Language, Lincoln,” my dad drawls, not looking up from his plate.

Running a hand over my face, I suck in a breath and hold it, letting the oxygen deprivation fuel my patience. Letting it out slowly, I refocus on my mother’s face. “I’m sorry. But can we drop this? I understand you have questions, but I don’t have an answer other than what I feel for Seraphina is more than I’ve ever felt for anyone. She’s the person I want in my life, and I pray to every god that exists in the universe that she feels the same way about me. What she’s experienced…” I pause, shaking my head at the memories she shared. “What she’s experienced makes her jaded and cautious, so I’m working with her timeline. Aside from that, I have nothing else to tell you.”

Tears well in my mother’s eyes at my words. “I’ll say one last thing: be good to each other,dobra?” I nod at her, leaning forward on my elbows. Her concern appeased, she nods back at me and sets her plate aside. “Have you spoken to Jordan recently?”

“Jordan, as in Jordan Fitzpatrick? Why would I have spoken to her recently? I haven’t seen her since we graduated college.”

“Why are you saying her name like that? She’s a nice girl. Anyway, Linda mentioned that she’s moving to New York for a new job in an art gallery. Isn’t that nice?”

“Cool.” I shrug, looking past my mom’s shoulder over at the crowded bar. It’s mid-morning on a Sunday, but that doesn’t seem to stop people from day drinking. The crowd bleeds into the open patio, people spilling all over the restaurant. I’m thankful as fuck I don’t work at a place like this, where the chefs are responsible for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My mother may have been excited to try this place, but I’m more than fine to never come back.

My mother continues talking, saying something about Jordan as though she’s of importance to me. Growing up, we were friendly in an “I see you at social events and don’t want to stab my eyes out when I talk to you” way. When we both ended up at Marymount, I’d say hello to her in public, but that was the extent of our friendship until she came over drunk one night and tried to fuck me. It was random, weird, and so out of the norm for Jordan that I knew her former friend, Felicity, probably convinced her it was a good idea.

Hell, she probably gave her the idea in the first place.

I tune her out, nodding every so often to give the appearance that I care about the direction this conversation has taken when a head of shockingly blond hair catches my eye, a shade so bright, I’ve only ever seen it on one person. From my position at the table, I can only see the back of the guy’s head and his slim frame, but I keep my stare on him, something telling me that it’s exactly who I think it is.

As if sensing my gaze, the head of hair starts to move, shifting back and forth as though he knows he’s in my sights. He turns fully in his seat, surveying the restaurant and giving me a good look at his smug face. A face that I swore I’d pound into the ground if I ever saw it again.

Mitch the Dick Abernathy.

I may have only met him once, but his preppy façade and all-American good looks are burned into my memories like an unwanted scar. I doubt he remembers who I am, having dismissed me so easily the only time we met. I fucking hope he has no idea who’s staring at him and underestimates just how much danger he’s in by sitting at the bar while I’m here.

I watch Mitch scan the restaurant, passing over me and my parents, before turning back to the woman seated on his right. I watch the back of their heads as they lean in toward each other, the way his hand moves to the back of her chair as though caging her in. Another woman—presumably the girl’s friend—interrupts, tapping her on the shoulder and forcing her to turn away from Mitch.

It’s then that I watch Mitch reach into his pocket before reaching across his body toward her drink. Every instinct I have ignites. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I murmur, pushing out my chair and standing up.

“Lincoln, what’s going on? What are you staring at?” My mom’s voice interrupts my violent thoughts, and I redirect my focus back to her.

“I see someone I know. I’ll be right back.”

I don’t wait to see if my parents are annoyed by my abruptness or confused by the sudden hostility in my demeanor. I stride across the restaurant, my eyes trained on the back of dickwad’s head, and slip through the crowd as easily as my body will allow.

It takes no more than a minute for me to arrive at the backs of their chairs, and I have to restrain myself from reaching out and slamming the douchebag’s head on the wooden bar.

“You get off on drugging women, asshole?” I ask, loud enough that the conversation around me dies. Reaching between their bodies, I grab the probably drugged drink from the bar and turn Mitch’s stool with the other. “Here’s your drink, man.” I shove the cocktail up to his mouth, pressing the straw right against his lips.

“What the hell?” Mitch mutters, pushing against the drink from his mouth. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“You. You’re my fucking problem. What did you put in this drink?” I hold it up, shaking it in his face and allowing it to slosh over. “Does your friend know you’re into unconscious girls, or is that a surprise you were hoping to spring on her later?”

“Hey, man.” Mitch’s voice drops to a placating tone. “I don’t know what you think you saw, but I didn’t put anything in that drink.”

I don’t pay attention to the people crowding around us or the attention I’ve undoubtedly drawn. “Then fucking drink it.” I hold out the drink again, daring him to take a sip of the laced alcohol.

Mitch’s eyes harden, and I know I’m not wrong in my assumption. “I’m allergic to tequila.”

“I’m sure you are, you prick.” Turning the glass over, I dump the contents of the drink onto his lap, reveling in the shock on his face before it turns to rage.

“You’re fucking dead,” Mitch roars, surging from the stool and lunging forward before someone behind him grabs him, stilling his forward motion. “Get the fuck off of me.” He twists, trying to get the hands on his body to fall off.

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