Page 11 of His Wisconsin Wallflower
“Somebody has to keep you on track.” Despite her plummeting mood, a small smile tugged at her lips.
“Oh, I’m perfectly capable,” he shot back with a grin. “I made this soup often when I got a little homesick in during my stay in Green Bay, back when I was with the Packers. It was only a little over a one-hour drive, but I didn’t manage to get home often due to my training and game schedule.”
Raisa tried to stay in the moment, as she, her nana, and Quinten talked about his time in Wisconsin, the small changes in Cedarburg, and favorite recipes.
“I’m sorry you lost your grandmother, lad. Eileen was a wonderful and kind woman, and her embroidery was exquisite.” Despite Raisa’s protests, Nana rose against to fetch spoons from the drawers. “Your family has suffered quite the setbacks lately. First the financial problems, then your granny died, before your dad’s horrible accident.” Nana shook her head, while she sank back in her chair. “Life is hard.”
“Life usually is.” His tone was even but his shoulders stiffened, and he turned back to the soup, stirring it one last time before ladling it into bowls Raisa handed him. “But it’s still worth living. Especially when you get to taste Gram’s soup!” He handed Raisa a bowl.
She welcomed the comforting warmth of the bowl in her hands, the heat seeping through the ceramic and comforted her as she placed it carefully in front of Nana, letting the rich aroma of the soup fill the room.
“It smells divine.”
Quinten placed a plate of bratwurst, bacon, and a small bowl with green onions on the table, along with some rolls. “The bread is store-bought, I’m afraid. I would give my throwing arm for homemade biscuits or rolls, but I never got the hang of baking.”
“Well.” Nana winked. “Lucky you are sharing a table with the finest baker in town.”
“Nana!” The heat rose in her cheeks. She almost jumped when Quinten placed his hand over hers.
“She’s right, you know. I’ve sampled your pastries. They are to die for.”
Judiciously, she extracted her hand from underneath his palm. “Let’s see if the same goes for your soup,” she said, lifting the spoon from the table to dip in the bowl.
Quinten’s grin widened. “I think you’ll find it does.”
They fell silent as all three concentrated on devouring the food, the soup’s scent mingling with the bread’s yeasty fragrance. Raisa savored every bite; the soup was excellent, creamy, and seasoned to perfection. For a moment, she almost forgot the weight of the past. Quinten was unexpectedly great company. He was attentive to Nana, genuinely interested in Raisa’s shop, and spoke knowledgeably about the world beyond Cedarburg. To her surprise, she discovered he was active in several charities, including the local animal shelter she supported.
After the meal, Quinten stood and began clearing the dishes without being asked. He stacked the bowls with ease, rinsed them at the sink, and set them in the dishwasher, moving through her kitchen like he’d done it a hundred times. Raisa watched, too surprised to stop him. This new version of him was disarming—so much so she nearly allowed herself to relax.
Her tension returned when Nana pushed herself up from the table. “Well, I think I’ve had enough excitement for one evening. These old bones need to rest. Thank you for the flowers and this lovely dinner, Quinten.”
“My pleasure, Nana,” he said, helping her to her feet.
Raisa sat back in stunned silence as he guided her grandmother toward the hall, his hand light on her elbow. His gentleness tugged at something buried inside her.
When he returned, he leaned against the counter, his gaze settling on Raisa. “I’m not the same guy I was in high school, you know.”
Her stomach twisted. “What makes you think I’m still hung up on high school?”
“Come on.” He raised an eyebrow. “You can hardly look at me without flinching. Look”—he rubbed the back of his neck—“I messed up the first time by using your old nickname. I’m sorry.”
She swallowed hard, her grip tightening on her spoon until the edge dug painfully into her palm. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I was and will always be Wallflower Winslow.”
“The hell you are.” With two steps he was beside her chair. He pulled her up, and slammed his mouth over her lips.
Quinten hadn’t intended to kiss her, but now that he was, he couldn’t stop. Somehow, this woman appealed to the best of him—wanting to covet and court like some old-days’ gentleman—she also conjured his worst to the surface, making his inner caveman want to dominate, tease, and fuck her senseless.
Her taste was intoxicating, the mix of sweetness and warmth more addictive than any victory on the field. Initially, her body had gone rigid in his arms, maybe in shock or surprise or maybe from inexperience.
Don’t screw this up.He allowed the kiss to linger long enough to let her set the pace. He brushed his lips against hers again, more teasing than demanding this time, coaxing her.
When he flicked his tongue featherlight against the seam of her lips, she opened for him, and he didn’t hesitate. He deepened the kiss, sliding one hand to cradle the back of her head while resting the other lightly on her waist.
Her body softened, her curves molding against him in a way that made his pulse race. The tentative way her fingers curled into his shirt sent a rush of protectiveness through him, cutting through the heady mix of desire.
She did trust him—if only for this moment—and that trust was more precious than anything he’d held in his life.
He pressed his thigh against her core and swallowed her moan. But it wasn’t only about the lust between them. He wanted more—needed everything she had to give and then some. He craved not only her delectable body pressed against his, but her laughter, her sharp wit, and her guarded but perceptive mind. In short, he wanted all of her.
