Page 18 of His Wisconsin Wallflower
Quinten shifted beside her, his posture tense. “Can you freeze it there?”
The image stilled. Both stared.
But nothing clicked. Nothing fit.
“I don’t know who that is.” She let her shoulders slump. “But I’m sure it isn’t Vanessa.”
Quinten shook his head, still staring at the screen. “I don’t know who that is either, but I think you’re right. This ain’t Vanessa.” He turned his gaze to the technician. “There’s nothing you can do to make this picture clearer?”
The man shrugged apologetically, gesturing at the outdated equipment in front of him. “Sorry, folks, but that’s the best I can do.”
“Damn it,” Quinten muttered, clenching his fists before shoving them into his coat pockets. The sharpness of his tone earned a pointed look from Raisa. He sighed, straightened, and nodded politely at the technician. “Thanks for your time.”
They stepped out of the server room, leaving behind the dry warmth radiating from racks of equipment. The corridor felt cooler by comparison, and both instinctively shrugged into their coats as they walked. Neither said much as they passed the front desk and pushed through the glass doors.
Outside, the temperature was even chillier, and the wind was merciless. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and burrowed into her coat. Snow crunched beneath their boots as they headed toward his truck. Quinten opened the passenger door for her without a word. Raisa slid onto the seat, murmuring a quiet “Thanks,” and tugged her gloves tighter as he rounded the hood.
They had too many unanswered questions.
A moment later, Quinten climbed into the driver’s seat, and the truck’s cab filled with an oppressive silence as he shut the door against the biting cold. He exhaled heavily and some of the tension seemed to leave his body.
His breath was visible in the chilly air inside the truck as he twisted the key, and the engine rumbled to life. To her relief, he turned on the heater.
Raisa shifted restlessly and twisted her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, her voice just audible over the roar of the heater.
Quinten snapped his head toward her and frowned. “For what?”
She hesitated and fixed her gaze on her fingers. “For not being able to help more. For... all of this.”
“That’s not on you.” There was a bite to his tone that made her want to disappear. “None of this is your fault.” His grip on the steering wheel tightened, until his knuckles turned white. “You’ve done more than enough.”
Raisa turned to him. “I don’t feel like it.” The bare and uncertain words slipped out. Her shoulders curled inward, as iftrying to make her smaller. A knot rose in her throat, tight with something between disbelief and the quiet ache of being seen. She blinked hard, not trusting herself to say more.
Quinten reached across the console, his fingers brushing against hers before he clasped her hand in a gentle hold. “You’re wrong.” He softened his voice, meeting her gaze in the dim light of the dashboard. “You’ve been... incredible. Smarter than I deserve, honestly.”
Her cheeks heated, and she glanced away, sure her face was bright red. But she didn’t pull her hand from his. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” he said, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “You’re... I don’t know. You make me want to be better.”
His vulnerability made Raisa’s chest tighten. She turned back to him, searching his face. The harsh lines of frustration from earlier had softened, replaced by something raw and unguarded.
“Quinten...” She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say.
He leaned in, his gaze locked on hers, and the small space between them grew charged. “Tell me if I’m wrong,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin as he closed the distance between them.
Raisa’s breath hitched, her heart pounding as she met him halfway. Their lips brushed hesitantly at first, the contact sending a jolt through her. Then the kiss deepened. Quinten brought his hand up to cradle her cheek, his palm warm, rough in the best way, his thumb brushing slowly over the curve of her jaw. The touch sent a shiver straight through her, and she leaned into it before she could stop herself.
Then he pulled her closer—his other hand slipping around her waist, fingers splaying possessively at the small of her back. The move wasn’t forceful, but it left no room for second-guessing. He wanted her close. And God help her, she wanted it, too.
His lips moved over hers again, slower this time, more deliberate. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and his mouth coaxed her lips open with quiet insistence. The first brush of his tongue sent a pulse through her, sharp, liquid, and impossible to ignore. She tasted coffee, heat, and something uniquely him. Her knees went soft, and she gripped his coat, needing something to hold onto.
The kiss turned hungry. His lips and tongue no longer exploratory but claiming. His mouth slanted over hers unhurried but full of purpose. His fingers pressed firmer into her waist. His thumb dragged lightly along the edge of her jaw, coaxing her to tip her head just right, and when she did, he stroked his tongue deeper. Her breath caught, and she melted into him.
There was no mistaking it now. This wasn’t just gratitude. This wasn’t just comfort. This was want, need, and a promise wrapped in heat.
And when he eased back, just a fraction, the loss of his mouth invoked a phantom ache.
The truck’s heater hummed quietly in the background, the warmth cocooning them as the snow swirled outside. Raisa tilted her head, letting her hands rest on his chest after uncurling from the fabric of his coat, and enjoying the steady beat of his heart pulsing against her palms.
