Page 22 of His Wisconsin Wallflower
“So are you,” Nana replied with a small smile. “Want some chamomile tea?”
“Yes, please.” Raisa followed her grandmother into the kitchen and sat at the small, well-worn table, watching Nana shuffle around.
“How was it with Quinten?” Nana asked as she poured the tea.
Raisa froze, a jolt of panic racing through her.Did she see us?Her mind scrambled, piecing together alibis before it clicked—Nana meant their visit to the police station. She let out a breath, trying not to laugh at her overreaction.
“It was… interesting,” she said, cautiously choosing her words. “We watched some CCTV footage of someone who might be Vanessa. But… I’m not so sure.”
Nana placed a steaming mug in front of her and sat down across the table, her weathered hands resting on the edge. “Why not?” She pushed forward and cocked her head, looking like a little bird waiting to be fed.
This little birdie wanted information.
Raisa hesitated, wrapping her fingers around the mug for comfort. “The walk was off, for one thing. Vanessa has this confident sway, like she owns every room she enters. Thisperson… didn’t. And the shoes—chunky sneakers. Have you ever seen Vanessa wear anything but heels?”
Nana chuckled. “Not once.”
“That’s what I mean. It doesn’t add up. But the footage is grainy, and I could be wrong.”
“You were always a good observer, child,” Nana said. “And your memory is flawless. If you say it’s not her, then it’s not her.”
Raisa blinked, a rush of warmth spreading through her chest. The absolute confidence in Nana’s words wrapped around her like a comforting blanket. “Thanks, Nana.” Her throat became tight with emotion.
Her grandmother stood, patting Raisa’s hand as she did. “I’m going to bed. I’m too old to stay up this late.”
“I think I’ll take my tea up to my room and write for a bit,” Raisa said. “I’m too wound up to sleep.”
Nana nodded, her eyes twinkling. “You do that, child. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Nana.”
Raisa rose as her grandmother shuffled out of the kitchen, her slippers scuffling against the tiles. Once Nana disappeared into the hallway, Raisa moved to close the curtains, double-check the gas stove, and turn off the light, before taking the narrow staircase up to her quarters.
In her room, Raisa set the untouched mug of tea on her desk and opened her laptop. She had intended to continue the story where she’d left off, but as her fingers hovered over the keys, her mind drifted back to Quinten. To the way his lips had felt against hers, firm but coaxing, leaving her breathless and craving more.
Without a second thought, she began typing, the words flowing faster than her brain could catch up. The love scene spilled onto the page in vivid detail—heated touches, whispered words, and a connection that was far too personal to be purelyfictional. She didn’t stop until she typed the final sentence with a satisfied sigh.
Raisa leaned back, staring at the screen. Heat bloomed in her cheeks as she reread the scene, realizing how much of her own emotions had bled into the text. She reached for her mug, took a sip—and grimaced. The tea had gone cold, and she had left the teabag steeping, making the resultant brew bitter and far too strong. She set it aside with a small shudder. With a quiet laugh, she saved the document and shut the laptop.
Her phone buzzed on the desk. The device’s soft light indicated the arrival of a new text. Her heart gave a small, involuntary flutter when she saw Quinten’s name.
I’ll pick you up at 11 am on Sunday. We’re going to talk with my family about the CCTV. Sleep well and dream of me.
Raisa frowned. Facing his family? She didn’t know if she was ready for that. After a moment, she typed a quick reply.
Okay. I’ll be ready. Goodnight, Quinten. Sweet dreams.
After dropping her phone on the nightstand, she went into the upstairs bedroom to get ready for the night. When she crawled into bed, she found herself hoping the morning wouldn’t come too quickly. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t mind losing herself in a dream.
Chapter Fourteen
Sunday mornings were usually quiet in the Winslow household. Nana had already left for church, her gentle words of encouragement lingering in Raisa’s mind from the night before.
“You should take your time with that nice young man at Sunday brunch,” Nana had said with a playful wink, adding that her visit to the Wisconsin Museum of Quilts & Fiber Arts during the afternoon would leave Raisa free to do as she pleased. Raisa had laughed, brushing it off, but the blush in her cheeks had betrayed her.
Now, ready with about ten minutes to spare before Quinten was set to arrive, Raisa stood by the window and tugged nervously on her blouse’s collar. She couldn’t believe how much effort she’d put into her appearance—choosing the soft navy blouse that complimented her eyes and a light dusting of makeup that heightened the natural glow of her skin and accented her best features. She wanted to make a good impression, though she wasn’t quite sure why that mattered so much.
The low rumble of an engine outside snapped her out of her thoughts. She shrugged on her coat, grabbed her scarf, and stepped outside, her breath curling in the crisp air.
