Page 108 of Roses in Summer

“Not really. Can I come in?” She opens the door wider, giving me space to walk inside. “I know you’re probably exhausted, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to you this morning. I, uh…” I clear my throat. “Mitch came up to me in the library’s parking lot yesterday after my shift.”

“What?” Her voice is loud, bouncing off the walls in the room. “Did you tell Rafe?”

“No, I haven’t spoken to him. I told my parents and Lincoln.”

“God, I hope that asshole gets spit roasted by Satan.”

I squint at the visual she just presented and shake my head to rid the mental image. “Lincoln saw him today when he went to brunch with his parents and confronted him. I don’t know what’s going on or why he’s suddenly everywhere, but I want you to be careful, okay?”

“He’s like a cockroach that won’t go away.” She huffs, leaning against the wall beside her closet. “Is Lincoln here?”

I nod, biting down on a smile. “Yeah, he’s sleeping.”

“Good. Make sure he takes care of you, okay?”

“And Rafe?” I hedge, lifting a brow at Liv.

“Rafe is Rafe,” she offers by way of explanation, and I make a mental note to call my brother in the morning to tell him about Mitch’s reappearance and to figure out what the hell is going on between the two of them. “Go back to bed, Ser. We can talk more tomorrow. I’m not working until Wednesday.”

My eyes light up, brightness in an otherwise dim conversation. “Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Night, Livvy.”

“That stupid nickname. Good night, Ser.”

I slip out of Olivia’s bedroom and walk across the hall to my room, carefully opening the door slowly to not wake Lincoln up. My efforts prove useless when his voice breaks the stillness.

“You okay, ciern?”

“I don’t even know how to answer that question,” I respond truthfully, not trying to feign strength in front of him. I see him nod in the darkness and pull back the covers he slid under.

“Come back to bed, Seraphina. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

40

Lincoln

“Nice of you to show up today, asshole,” Diana comments as soon as I step into the kitchen. “Leaving us shorthanded on a Sunday service is shitty, Simmons. I hope you had a good reason.”

The thing about Diana is that she shows she cares through terse commentary and insults. In the years since I’ve known her, I’ve called out of work no more than three times, so what she’s saying, without asking directly, is that she hopes everything is okay.

“Had some family shit I had to deal with.”

“Gemma must have had a field day with your day off.” Diana translation: Did something happen to Gemma, and is she okay?

“Gemma and I broke up over a month ago.” I don’t add that I’m with Seraphina, not because I’m embarrassed, but because I don’t feel like listening to Di’s commentary on the subject.

“Good. She was a pain in the ass.” There’s no translation for that; she’s saying exactly what she means. “Franki was just in here. We have a few large parties this afternoon, Wall Street types, I assume, and a full house tonight.” I nod, buttoning my coat and reaching for my knives and cutting board to begin prep.

“Did she go over new specials? Or are they the same as last week’s?”

“Same, but eighty-six the leek and potato soup. It’s too hot, and it won’t go.”

“Got it.” I nod, laying out my containers before inventorying Diana’s progress on the vegetable prep.

“Here, chiffonade the spinach and kale.” Diana points toward the large tray with leafy greens, and I nod again, grab the tray, and get started.

There’s a mindlessness in my motions, an easiness that stems from conditioning and practice. I let my mind wander as I slice through the vegetables, thinking back to this morning when I woke up with Seraphina in my arms. It’s the second morning in a row that my little thorn was nestled beside me when I woke up, and I’m getting used to how damn good it feels to reach for her in the middle of the night. Not for sex—though sleeping with Seraphina transcends every other sexual experience I’ve had—but to assure myself that she’s real, that she’s there and not a figment of my imagination.

I wasn’t lying when I told Seraphina that I experimented during the years we had no contact, not just with Gemma but with other women too. I could fall down a rabbit hole of feeling like a scum bag for the amount of sex I’ve had, the ways and types and settings, but I don’t, and I won’t. The encounters were, at the time, fun but hollow, a balm that never seemed to work.

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