Page 12 of His Wisconsin Wallflower
He longed for her to see him, the real Quinten Carrington, not the shallow boy he’d been in high school or the athlete for whom the world had cheered.
The thought hit him like a freight train, and he eased back a few millimeters, breaking the kiss but keeping his forehead pressed against hers. She blinked up at him, her lips slightly swollen, her breathing uneven.
“I’m not the same guy I was back then,” he murmured and had to clear his voice that was thick with emotion. “I swear, I’ll prove it to you.” He stepped back, and after making sure she was steady on her feet, let go of her. “I’m going to prove it by ignoring how much I want you and walk away now, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Her gaze flickered with something unreadable—caution, curiosity, maybe even hope.
Quinten turned, his chest getting tighter with every step. He left the kitchen slowly, the warmth of her still clinging to hisbody and her taste on his tongue. At the front door, he hesitated, long enough to hear the soft hush of her breath behind him, then opened it and stepped outside.
The door clicked shut at his back. His boots scuffed against the gravel, each step feeling like an eternity. His legs felt leaden, and the few yards to his truck stretched endlessly before him, as though the ground itself was conspiring to slow his progress.
His balled his hands into fists at his sides, the urge to turn back clawing at him with every passing second. His cock was painfully hard and pressing against his zipper, but it wasn’t only his body that ached—it was his heart, raw and exposed, every step forward pulling him further from the one thing he wanted most.
By the time he reached the truck, the distance felt like several football fields, not mere feet. But he’d made a promise, and the only thing stronger than the pain of leaving was his determination to prove her wrong about him.
Chapter Eight
Quinten knocked on the door of the Clark residence, his breath visible in the frosty morning air. The house looked much the same as it had when he was a kid—a small, weathered ranch with peeling paint and sagging gutters. As he waited, he couldn’t help but notice the overgrown bushes and a faded welcome mat that was more ironic than inviting.
When the door creaked open after minutes of waiting, the odor hit him first—a strange mix of mothballs, old books, and something faintly floral that reminded him of the antique shops in town. Mrs. Clark stood there, her frail frame dwarfed by the oversized cardigan draped over her shoulders. She squinted up at him as though trying to place his face.
“Mrs. Clark.” Quinten forced a polite smile. “It’s Quinten Carrington. I’m looking for Vanessa. Have you seen her lately?”
“Quinten,” she echoed, sounding distant. Her gaze drifted past him, as though she were searching for something. “You are the football player, aren’t you? Vanessa loves being a cheerleader and watching those games.”
Quinten blinked as he tried to absorb the cheerleader remark but nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” He stepped inside as she waved himin. The living room was cluttered with knick-knacks and old photos, the furniture mismatched and worn. The chill inside made him wonder if the heater was even working.
“It’s so nice to have company,” she said, settling into a chair that looked like it might have been around since the Reagan administration. “I don’t get visitors much these days.”
“Have you seen Vanessa recently?” Quinten pressed gently, as he took in the room with the layers of dust on the mantel and the stacks of unopened mail on the side table.
Mrs. Clark’s brow furrowed. “Oh, Vanessa…” Her voice became uncertain. “She was here… not too long ago, I think. Maybe she’s with Beth? Or with her other friends. She doesn’t need to study much but has great grades. She got the math brains from her daddy.” Her eyes brightened. “Did you know she got the highest grade in her math class? She is such a bright girl.”
Quinten’s jaw tightened. He was trying to piece together any useful information, but Mrs. Clark appeared to be stuck in the past. “Do you know where she might be now? Her house was empty when I stopped by.”
“Her house?” Mrs. Clark shook her head, appearing the epitome of confused, and her expression clouded as if she tried to see inside her head. “I… I don’t know. She’s been spending time elsewhere lately, but this is her home... Where is Ernie? Have you asked her daddy?”
Quinten suppressed a sigh, his frustration building. Ernest Clark had left more than twenty years ago. It had been such a scandal in their small town—a local man taking off with his secretary and leaving behind his wife and daughter. Something was wrong with Mrs. Clark’s memory, and she wouldn’t be any help in finding Vanessa. None of this was Mrs. Clark’s fault, though, and it wasn’t right to push her. “Thank you, Mrs. Clark. I appreciate your time.”
As he stepped outside, the cold hit him again, sharper this time. He speed-dialed Corbin, pacing the snow-dusted walkway while the phone rang.
“What’s up?” His brother’s voice crackled through the line.
“We need to meet at the police station,” Quinten said, running a hand through his hair. “Vanessa’s mom… she’s not all there. It’s a bad situation, bro. I don’t feel right leaving her alone, but I don’t know what else to do.”
“I’ll head over to the station now,” Corbin replied without hesitation. “Why don’t you give Mom a call? She’ll figure it out.”
“Great idea! Thanks!”
After hanging up, Quinten called his mom. “Hey, Mom. I just came from Mrs. Clark’s place.” In a few words he explained the situation to his mother, who was all empathy.
“Poor Milly,” his mother said. “Don’t worry, honey. I know her nearest neighbor, Clarice, pretty well. We went to school together. I’ll call her and ask her to check in. I knew Vanessa was spending more time at her mom’s, but I didn’t realize it had gotten this bad.”
Relieved he could leave the matter in his mother’s capable hands, Quinten rang off and continued driving to the police station. When he reached Wauwatosa Road, Corbin’s beat-up pickup truck was already parked in front of the station. The once-red paint had faded to a dull, almost pinkish hue, and Quinten made a mental note to check if the vehicle was still safe and plan to replace it if necessary.
Inside the station, the kid behind the front desk looked barely old enough to be out of high school. His black uniform and shiny badge seemed too heavy for him.
“We want to report a missing person,” Quinten stated.
