Roses in Summer (Marymount University #4)

1. Seraphina

1

Seraphina

There’s no right or wrong way to deal with a breakup. For some people, I’m sure they’re able to remain friendly with their exes and have a cordial relationship that’s based on mutual respect. But for others like me, the only thing I want to do every time I see my ex-boyfriend is run away.

That’s probably how I ended up here, in a janitor’s closet during period changes. When I stepped out of my AP English class, I had every intent to head to the library for independent study. But somewhere between stepping into the hallway and hearing my stupid nickname called by Mitch, the ex in question, I ran.

Or, more accurately, I power walked to the nearest door and yanked it open, not caring to turn the lights on or survey my surroundings. As soon as the door was pulled closed, I belatedly realized I should be more concerned about my hiding place. Namely, does it lock from the outside, and if so, will I be stranded in here until someone else either tries to hide or otherwise opens the door?

Feeling along the cement wall, I search for a light switch, relieved when I find one not too far from the door. Flicking it on, I survey my surroundings and nod to myself once the brooms, cleaning supplies, and janitorial carts come into view.

“How long until the period bell rings?” I ask the antiseptic, not expecting a reply but voicing my question all the same. It’s been a lonely month at my small high school, not only because I’m a natural introvert and more prone to listening than speaking but also because of the disastrous breakup with Mitch.

When I first met Mitch Abernathy, I was flattered by his attention and proud to be the girl he chose to date. For the first six months of our relationship, I was in a bubble, a self-imposed, ignorant vortex that prevented me from seeing just how toxic and manipulative our relationship was. His edicts started out as small microforms of aggression that influenced whom I spoke to, how I dressed, and even how much I told my sisters and twin brother about our relationship.

When I first met Mitch, one of the popular football players from the wealthy side of town, my mind was on exploring who I was, kissing, and even sex. I was excited to experience adulthood, even with the knowledge that teen romances rarely make it in the real world. But Mitch had other ideas and expectations for me. Like a fool, I followed him and embraced his ideals and ideas of who I should be.

My casual T-shirts, wide-leg jeans, and leather skirts were replaced with Polo and Lululemon. My hair was long, like a veil, and I’d been encouraged to keep it that way. It felt like a weight hanging down my back, a constant reminder of who I belonged to.

I drifted along with Mitch’s wants and whims, contorting into a perfected version of myself, a version I hated because my boyfriend seemed to love it. And when he told me he loved me, I believed him. When I told him I loved him, I believed that too. At first, that love felt full, deliciously warm, and cozy. As one of four children, I’m used to being the forgotten sister, the minuscule one with not much to say. In my mind, being known as Mitch’s partner was a privilege.

When Mitch told me his expectations, that he believed in abstinence until marriage, part of me was shocked, especially because of rumors I heard about him before we started dating. I allowed his views—his expectations—to become mine. I allowed him to influence what I thought, said, and wanted until I became a false image of myself that even my parents couldn’t recognize.

Ending things with Mitch didn’t happen all at once; it took time. I stepped away once, twice, only to be reeled back in with promises of change and love bombing. Each time, I hated myself more. But this last time, when Mitch’s words and actions became too explosive for me to permit, I walked away.

For good.

Looking around the closet, my eyes catch on a broom leaning haphazardly against the wall, barely standing upright in the mess of a closet. For whatever reason, the broom’s position makes me think of my older sister, Ava, and the night I spent at Marymount last month. I can’t help the smile that tugs on my lips at the thoughts of that night, how nervous and excited I was to attend an infamous college party.

But almost as soon as we walked in, Ava had beer dumped all over her white shirt, leaving her practically naked in the crowded, humid house party. Her boyfriend—a person I had no idea even existed—brought her home, leaving me with their friends in a strange place. Rationally, I know that I could have gone with them, but it felt as though I would have been a third wheel, an unwelcome interloper in whatever conversation they needed to have.

Instead, I was handed off to Lincoln Simmons, the most attractive boy I had ever seen. Biting down on my lip, I can’t help the flush that takes over my cheeks at the memory of the startlingly bright-green eyes that contrast with his light-brown skin, the tattoos that circled his neck and every inch of his exposed arms, and the smirk that seemed to say, “I know I look fucking good.”

In a word, he was beautiful. Stunning, even.

Is it weird to call a man beautiful? I’m not sure another adjective would suffice to explain his high cheekbones, long lashes, and the almost feral look in his eyes. Call it insecurity or stupidity, but for some reason, I expected Lincoln’s personality to be the antithesis of his looks because there’s no way God made a man that beautiful and nice. But I was wrong.

Yes, Lincoln is a sarcastic, cocky pain in the ass, but he’s also kind and sweet and considerate. He made sure to bring me back to my sister’s dorm and stayed the night, talking and laughing and just being. I’ve never experienced that level of comfort with anyone, certainly not with Mitch, who expected me to be some kind of Stepford wife in training.

But it’s not just Lincoln’s looks and personality that set my world into chaos, it was the kiss. Closing my eyes, I lean my head against the door, transporting myself back to my sister’s dorm room and the game of twenty questions that took a turn I never expected.

“Do you think they have any games?” he muses, taking in the fairy lights along the wall and the beds piled high with pillows.

“I brought Banana Grams,” I admit before I think better of it.

“A banana?”

Like a child, I giggle, eliciting an eye roll from Lincoln. “No. It’s called ‘Banana Grams.’ It’s similar to Scrabble, but instead of using a board, you make your own formation from little tiles.”

“Do all the words have to be English?”

I pause at that, considering my response. “Well, no, I guess not. But I wouldn’t know if you were making up a word if you said it was another language.” Tilting my head, I peer over at him. “What other language do you speak?”

“My mom’s from Poland, so I grew up going to Polish school on the weekends and speaking it with her and that side of my family. I also speak a little German and Russian.”

“Oh, wow.” I swallow, unequivocally impressed. “Can you say something in Polish?”

“What am I, a show pony?” he teases.

“No, I didn’t mean—I’m sorry—”

“Calm down, Seraphina, I’m fucking with you.” Positioning himself against Celeste’s bed, he looks at the wall for long seconds before turning his gaze back to me. “Jeste? najpi?kniejsz? rzecz? , jak? kiedykolwiek , kurwa , widzia?em i nie wiem , co z tob? zrobi? .

I swallow thickly, his gaze so heavy upon my face that it’s like I can feel it against my skin. “What did you say?”

“Just that that sweatshirt is too big on you.”

I narrow my eyes, somehow knowing he’s lying but also unwilling to push him. “If you say so.”

“I do. Anyway, I don’t think your Banana Hammock game is a good idea. I’ll sweep the floor with you.”

“Hey! That’s—”

“Take the joke, Sera. Tell me about yourself.”

“There’s not much to tell that you probably don’t already know. My sister can’t keep her mouth shut when she starts talking, and she talks a lot,” I muse, thinking about my beautifully clumsy sister and her penchant for oversharing. I point at my chest, raising a brow at Lincoln. “Seraphina Rose Gregori, eighteen-year-old high school student. I like libraries, gardening, and reading.”

“You sure you’re not eighty-five? No, let’s play a game, twenty questions.”

“I doubt you’ll find twenty interesting things about me.”

He looks to the ceiling, annoyance stamped across his handsome features until they smooth out. “Where are you going to college?”

“Oh, we’re starting? Okay. I’ll be in Pennsylvania next year, at Penn University.” I eye him suspiciously. “My sister hasn’t already told you that?”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Perhaps. Why are you going out there? Didn’t you get an offer from Marymount?”

Looking away, I swallow the thickness in my throat. Marymount was always my dream, but once Ava enrolled, and Bianca, our youngest sibling, set her sights on the university, I decided I needed to leave New Jersey. “I was offered a full ride at Penn. Marymount accepted me, too, but offered a partial scholarship. My parents would have been fine either way, but I felt the easy choice was the full scholarship. Anyway, is it my turn now?” I wait for him to nod. “Why do you want to be a chef?”

His smile turns wistful like he’s recalling a memory that gives him immense happiness. “I’ve always loved being in the kitchen. Growing up, I traveled a lot, either with my parents for their jobs or when they would bring me for modeling gigs. I hated being in front of the camera, even if I got paid a fuck-ton of money to smile pretty and keep my mouth shut. My parents bought a house in North Jersey when I was in high school, giving me some more permanence. The one thing I looked forward to while we were traveling was the food and different cultures you could explore through food: street food in Mexico, homemade pasta in Italy, rich stews in Poland. Every time we would get back home after one of our trips, I would try to recreate what we ate.

“I realized I wasn’t shit in the kitchen. In high school, there was a vocational program to train in culinary arts and hospitality, and I fucking loved it. I didn’t want to come to college—almost didn’t, too, because I took a year off to work in the kitchens at a spot by my parents’ house, but my parents forced the issue. They supported my goal of becoming a chef but were adamant that I would receive a college degree. Marymount is one of the only universities that has decent culinary and hospitality programs, so it made sense to come here, especially after I found out Dante and Grey were coming too.”

“You knew them before school?”

“Tsk tsk, one at a time, Sera.”

“That’s a dumb rule,” I mumble.

“You’re fucking thorny,” he starts, laughing at his joke. “A thorny little rose. What are you majoring in?”

We go back and forth, trading basic, innocuous information you could find on our social media profiles. I sink into Ava’s headboard, getting comfortable with the easy dialogue, when Lincoln startles me with his next question.

“Tell me about your boyfriend.”

I cut him a sharp glance. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“You sure? Because Ava talks about some asshole named Mitch.”

I swallow against the lump in my throat at the mention of Mitch. “We broke up two weeks ago. For good.” I emphasize the last part. “We started dating when we were sophomores, and I was flattered by his attention. Mitch is…” I look up, struggling for the words to describe him. “He’s bigger than life, a loud, charismatic personality with golden-boy good looks. He’s also a dick and has no problem using his family’s wealth and status to get ahead. He wanted things that didn’t make sense, not just because they were old-fashioned ideas of women, but because they chafed against every fiber of my being.” I let out a dark chuckle. “If he had his way, we’d probably be engaged after high school, married right out of college.”

“Why’d you break up this time?”

“Excuse me? I thought it was one question at a time.”

“Fine, cierń. Ask me your question.”

“Churn? What does that mean?”

A dark brow rises. “Is that your question?”

I glare at him but nod.

“Not churn, cierń. It’s Polish,” he supplies, running a hand down his face. “It means thorn.”

“Why are you calling me a thorn?” I shake my head, trying to make sense of the term. The look he sends me forces a quiet groan sound from the back of my throat.

The look he sends me has a quiet groan sound from the back of my throat. “Fine, ask your damn question.”

“Did you love him?”

Biting down on my cheek, I consider his words. Did I ever love Mitch? It’s not as easy as yes or no; there’s so much nuance to the seemingly simple question. “I loved the idea of him. I loved how I felt in the beginning, the thrill of being someone’s person. I even loved being known as Mitch’s girlfriend instead of Ava, Rafe, or Bianca’s sister. It was like a new identity,” I swallow the bile slowly rising up my throat.

“But, the more comfortable I got around him, the more controlling he became. First, it was my hair- I wasn’t allowed to cut it. Then it was that I needed to stay a virgin until we got married because he comes from a family of politicians, as though a wedding was something on my radar at eighteen. There were more and more rules, more expectations, and it became stifling.”

Lincoln’s face turns to granite, his body stills on the chair he’s perched on. I’m not sure which part shocked him the most, but it’s easy to see that something I said unnerved him.

“Why did you stay with him?”

I don’t bother chastising him for asking a question out of turn; I give in to my need to talk about Mitch with someone other than my sisters and Rafe, someone who doesn’t know me, doesn’t expect anything from me. “I guess part of me loved him, or at least that I was wanted.”

“You’re never getting back with him.” Lincoln states, a demand he has no right to make, but warms me all the same.

“Okay, Dad.”

“If I were your father, I’d ground you from leaving the house for dating him in the first place.”

“Drama king,” I tease, rolling my eyes at his over-protective response. “I already have a daddy and a brother; I don’t need another of either.”

He chokes on a laugh. “I don’t want to be your fucking brother.”

Silence descends, uncomfortable in its thickness. There’s a tension present, one that’s sexual and heavy, tangible, yet completely out of my grasp.

Clearing my throat, I attempt to diffuse the pressure pushing down on the room. “So, tell me about the tattoos.”

Staring at me, he works his jaw, remaining quiet for a stretch so long, it seems like he’ll never answer the question. “You’ll have to be more specific; I’m covered in them.”

“Right, right. But uh,” I clear my throat again. “Why?”

“I thought I’d lose modeling contracts if I got them.”

“And did you?” I can’t help but ask.

He shakes his head, the intensity in his gaze never wavering. “You ready for your next question, cierń?”

“Yes,” my voice squeaks, sounding pathetic to my ears.

“Has Mitch ever kissed you properly?”

My mouth pops open, “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Has he kissed you? And I’m not talking a shitty excuse of lips mashed together; I mean, has he has he given you a proper kiss?”

“Wh-what—?” I stutter, shaking my head in an attempt to understand his words.

“Hmm,” he muses, practically purring from across the room. “Answer my question. Has he ever given you a real kiss? One that makes breathing hard and your heart race?”

I shake my head, mimicking his movement from earlier. What I’ve experienced with Mitch has been incredibly one-sided and unsatisfying.

A deep rumble sounds from his chest, causing me to jump in surprise. “Do you want a kiss, mój ma?y cierń?”

More than anything. But I don’t say that. I just nod and watch his body unfurl from the chair.

His movements are graceful, but it’s his eyes I can’t look away from. Like two glowing gemstones, his green stare holds me captive until he’s standing next to the bed.

“What should I do with you, cierń?”

Whatever you want.

He laughs and I flush, realizing that I spoke that aloud. “Relax for me,” he orders, just before leaning down to capture my lips.

His lips are soft, a surprise since the rest of his face and body look chiseled from granite.

He leads me in a delicate dance as his mouth molds against mine, coaxing my lips until they pop open, allowing his tongue entrance. He licks into me, gently at first, like he’s giving me time to adapt to the feel of his tongue against mine, before increasing his pressure, stroking in and out of my mouth in the most sinfully hot kiss I’ve ever experienced.

I lean into him, tilting my head to give him greater access, and he doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of the movement. His hands move to grab the sides of my face, and his thumbs press against my cheeks as he positions my head exactly where he wants me. I can’t help the moan that works its way out of my mouth.

Breaking away from my lips, Lincoln nips at my jaw, trailing kisses over my skin, down my neck, until he sucks at my pulse point. “Fuck, you taste delicious,” he pants, licking at my throat.

“Th-thank you,” I stutter, shutting my eyes as his tongue works down the column of my neck. I’m not entirely sure if I’m supposed to be thanking him for licking my skin like it’s the most decadent ice cream he’s ever tasted, but he doesn’t seem phased.

“Good enough to fucking eat,” he sighs, giving my skin a final taste before dropping his hands and backing away. I follow him with my body, like a magnet being pulled, and catch myself before I tumble off the bed.

“God,” I mumble, my skin growing hot at the memory. Opening my eyes, I see a small analog clock on the wall, taunting me with the time. Thoughts of Lincoln disperse, though my phone burns in my pocket with the constant stream of texts we seem to be sending back and forth.

Shaking my head, I try to turn off the part of my brain that seems filled with Lincoln and focus on the situation I’m in—hiding in a janitor’s closet all because my ex-boyfriend called my name in the middle of a crowded hallway. “Ten minutes should be long enough.” Maybe I should be concerned that I’m speaking to inanimate objects, but it’s something I’ll have to worry about later. Turning around, I grasp the door handle and pull it toward me, giving me a small sliver of space to look out into the hall. I’m relieved to find it deserted. With confidence I don’t feel, I open the door the rest of the way and slip out of the closet, walking lightly toward the library where my independent study is held.

I don’t even make it three steps out of the false sanctuary before a whiny voice calls out to me. “Fin, there you are. Thank God.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I debate the merits of sliding back inside the closet and barricading myself in. But as soon as that thought crosses my mind, a hand reaches out and grabs my shoulder, spinning me around with unnecessary force. “Did you hear me, Fin? I was looking for you. Why are you avoiding me?”

Mitch’s eyes are wide, his hair uncombed, and his mannerisms frantic. Sighing with what feels like the rest of my patience, I take a step back, trying to force his hand to drop from my body, but pain pulls on my scalp as I do. Scowling, I reach up and pull on the strands of hair caught on the ostentatious gold bracelet Mitch always wears. “What do you want, Mitch?” I wince as one last firm tug tears hair from my head. I quickly step back, putting more distance between us.

“Seraphina, why are you talking to me like that? What’s going on?”

“Mitch, we broke up. What do you want?”

“No. No. No, we didn’t. You just wanted a break, but we’ll get back together, just like we always do. You don’t mean that.”

Looking toward the ceiling as though it’s siphoning the patience leaking out of me, I try again. “Yes, we broke up. What do you need? I need to go to independent study.”

“Seraphina.” Mitch’s voice breaks, the most powerful emotion I’ve ever heard from him ringing through his tone. “I need you, Fin. Don’t do this.”

“It’s already done, Mitch. We broke up a month and a half ago.” I shake my head, gritting my teeth against the surging anger. “We’ve had this conversation, or a variation of this conversation, every week for the last month. I don’t understand why we’re still doing this.”

“Fin, I-I can’t do this without you.”

My brow furrows from his words, anger replaced by confusion. “Do what?”

Mitch’s eyes shift from side to side, like he’s making sure no one else is in the hall to hear the conversation. He steps forward, lowering his voice as he speaks. “There’s so much shit going on in my family, Seraphina, and I— Fuck,” he mutters, cutting himself off. “Will you come by the house later and let me explain? I can’t do it here. Please, Fin. Don’t you owe me that?”

He almost had me, but as soon as he uttered that last statement, any sympathy I might have had evaporated. “I owe you nothing, Mitchell. Now, please, leave me alone.” Turning on my heel, I walk toward the library, clenching my hands as I walk.