Page 10 of His Wisconsin Wallflower
Chapter Seven
The butter melted in the pot, sizzling pleasantly as Quinten sautéed the onions. The rich aroma filled the kitchen, creating an odd sense of warmth and familiarity. Raisa busied herself wiping an already clean counter, her movements brisk and precise, while her gaze kept straying to him.
“What’s your favorite recipe, Mrs. Winslow?” Quinten asked, like it was the most normal thing in the world for him to be standing in their kitchen, making beer cheese soup. He added the garlic, hot sauce, Worcestershire sauce, and seasonings as he waited for her grandmother to answer.
“Call me Nana,” her grandmother said with a laugh, waving him off from the table where she sat, nursing her tea.
Raisa’s eyebrows shot up.
Call me Nana?
Clearly, he’d already charmed her grandmother. It was hard to reconcile this version of Quinten, so at ease and respectful, with the boy she remembered—the one who had laughed so carelessly when Beth made Raisa trip in the cafeteria, sending her tray of spaghetti spilling onto the floor.
“Clumsy Raisa strikes again!” Beth had sung, her laugh echoing in the crowded room. Quinten had been sitting with the popular crowd, his chuckle blending with theirs as Raisa scrambled to gather her dignity, along with her tray.
“Raisa?” Quinten’s voice pulled her back to the present.
She blinked, gripping the edge of the counter. “What?”
“I said, could you pass me the flour?” He gestured with the spoon, his grin easy but questioning. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she hurried to say, distracting herself by grabbing the bag of flour and setting it on the counter with a thud. Her pulse thrummed as she stepped back, brushing her hands over her jeans.
“Thanks,” Quinten said, sprinkling the flour over the softened onions and stirring it in to create a roux. “You come off as distracted.”
“Just thinking about work,” she lied, crossing her arms.And high school. And how much I hate that you’re making yourself so damn hard to hate.
Nana chuckled loud enough to cut through the tension. “You’re doing great, Quinten. I can already tell this is going to be delicious.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Er, Nana,” he corrected with a sheepish smile. He poured the chicken broth in slowly, whisking with steady movements. “This soup always reminds me of my own grandmother. She used to make it on game nights.”
Raisa tightened her arms across her chest. “Big family tradition?”
He nodded. “Yeah. My grams was all about traditions. She said they gave life structure.” His voice softened, his whisking slowing for a moment before resuming its steady rhythm. “She’d be happy to know I’m still keeping it alive.”
His sincerity made Raisa’s chest ache. She glanced at Nana, who was beaming at Quinten like he was the best thing to happen to their kitchen in years.
Okay, granted, he was a fine specimen to look at—the way he moved with ease, the confidence he exuded, whether it was on the playing field, speaking to the press, or standing in their kitchen making dinner. Yeah, she’d kept tabs on him, followed his career, and had never gotten over her crush on him, darn it!
Crumbling some of the cheese grates between her fingers, she forced her mind back to the present.Grandmother. He’s talking about his grandmother.“She sounds like a great woman.”
“She was.” Quinten met her gaze for a beat, something wordless passing between them before he turned back to the pot. “Mom and Dad were always busy with the company, so Grams was a big fixture in mine, Corbin, and Gavin’s life. That woman raised us.”
“And a fine job she did.” Nana rose and scuffled to the sink to place her empty tea mug.
“Nana, I could have done that.” Raisa stepped closer.
“Nonsense, girl, I need to keep using these old joints, otherwise they will rust.”
“She’s right, you know.” Quinten took the chopping board from her and added the cheese a handful at a time. “Use it or lose it.”
Nana chuckled and went back to sit at the kitchen table. “Smart lad. I like him.”
Yeah, yeah, that much is obvious enough. Well maybe you should date him, then.
Disconcerted by her thoughts, because this wasn’t a real date anyway, she instructed Quinten, “You should lower the heat to ensure the dairy doesn’t separate.”
He tipped his chin and gave her a straight look. “You know, for someone who’s not cooking, you’re awfully bossy.”
