Page 63 of Roses in Summer

“I’m just saying. Besides, don’t think I haven’t figured out that you disappeared with Lincoln last night. Your lipstick was smeared all over his mouth, and I doubt he put it there himself.”

Olivia, the traitor, laughs at my sister’s comment. Gritting my teeth, I quicken my pace and race to the front door, throwing it open without another glance at my sister and my best friend.

—

“Do you think I have enough food, Seraphina? I’m not sure that five steaks will be enough,” my mother contemplates, surveying the food in front of her. “Should I order some pizza, just in case? What do you think everyone likes?”

I laugh at her words, rolling my eyes at the drama. “There’s always enough food, and leftovers, and freezer-ready containers. You don’t need to order pizza.” My mother has been this way since I was a child, consumed with making sure there’s always enough food, enough nourishment, for everyone. Over the years, her obsession became excessive, and it’s gotten to the point where my siblings and I have to talk my mother out of doubling the recipes and orders every time we have company over.

Turning my back to my mother, I look toward Olivia and Bianca, arguing over the table setting in the dining room. Their voices don’t carry into the kitchen, but based on the animation on their faces and the hands they’re throwing around, it’s not difficult to surmise that they’re fighting over something.

Keeping my gaze trained on them, I release a sigh, knowing that I have to tell my mom about my run-in at the library, but also dreading the conversation. “Mom?”

“Hm?” she responds, distracted by whatever food prep she’s doing based on the banging I hear behind me.

Swallowing, I choose to rip the band-aid off. “I ran into Chris Kopicki.”

Noise stops, and the kitchen becomes unnaturally quiet. Looking over my shoulder, I see my mom’s eyes trained on me, her mouth turned down in a frown, and her brows furrowed. “When?”

“Yesterday, in the library.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

I nod, turning my head back around so that I’m not facing her when I say, “He mentioned Mitch.”

“Dammit, Seraphina,” my mom mutters. “We need to tell our lawyer, just in case.” When I took out the restraining order and filed the report against Mitch, my parents made sure I was represented by an attorney who specializes in assault and battery cases. I haven’t spoken to her in years, but apparently, that correspondence will start up again.

“Okay,” I concede, not putting any argument up, mainly because the thought of seeing, interacting, or otherwise engaging with Mitch again makes me physically ill, and anything I can do to prevent even the possibility of that happening is fine by me.

Looking past Liv and Bianca, who are still arguing over place settings in the dining room, my eyes snag on cars pulling up outside, the driveway and road filling up quickly. I watch the six bodies get out of the three vehicles and see them walk toward the house. Dante holds CeCe as though she’ll bolt at any moment, even after all the years they’ve been together. Grey has his hand wrapped around Ava’s, and Serena and Lincoln are walking side by side, lost in conversation.

I watch the group descend upon the house, looking like an insular, exclusive little family. Through the window, I stare as they round the front of the house and disappear just before the sound of the door alarm goes off, signaling the opening of the front entrance.

“Mom, I’m going to go to the garden for some herbs. Do you need anything?” I look at her, unsurprised by the concerned expression on her face.

“Sera, this conversation isn’t over, okay?”

I force a smile, trying to emote some semblance of calm when all I feel is a riot of emotion. “Okay, but I need more tomatoes for the salad.”

“I thought you needed herbs?”

“Yes, right. Those too.”

She nods, raising an eyebrow in a silent communication of, “You’re full of shit, but you’re my daughter, so I’ll let this slide.”

Biting down on my lip, I turn and leave the kitchen just as the voices of my sister and her friends break through the room. Slipping out the back door, I follow the worn path to the concealed greenhouse my parents built, a little sanctuary in suburban central Jersey. There’s something about walking into the still, fragrant air of the glasshouse that seems to calm me the same way the library does. I wish I could lose myself in the vegetation and florals more, that I could come home for a daily hit of the serotonin that the greenhouse provides, but I can’t. In a dream world, I would alternate my time between a garden and a library, basically living like a wood nymph.

Opening the door slowly, I ease myself into the space and savor the quiet before I check on my Black Magic roses. The greenhouse was supposed to be exclusively for vegetables and herbs, a way to cultivate seasonal vegetables all year round without worrying about frost or inconsistent soil. At the garden supply store, I found a bush of Black Magic roses, a variety of deeply red blooms that appear almost bloody.

Bending down, I suck in a breath, convincing myself that I can smell the rose fragrance even though they’re nowhere near mature.

“Did you plan to hide in here all night?”

The deep, familiar voice behind me startles me, and I jump, pricking my finger against a thorn.

“Shit.” I suck my pointer finger into my mouth and soothe the pain. Rough hands lightly grip my wrist, pulling my finger out of my mouth, and before I can comprehend what’s happening, Lincoln’s lips close over my finger.

My eyes widen at the action. Shock, disgust, and overwhelming arousal move through me, and I have no idea if I should step back or watch him consume me.

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