Page 3 of His Wisconsin Wallflower
“Morning, boss,” Lila said, shrugging out of her coat. “It smells amazing back there. Blueberry muffins?”
“You have the nose.” Raisa smiled faintly.
Lila paused, giving her a look. “Are you okay? You seem... off.”
Raisa hesitated. “Just thinking. About Nana. About... stuff.”
“Stuff?” Lila grinned. “Like that hot firefighter who came in last week asking for a book on grilling?”
“Lila.” Raisa groaned, though her lips twitched.
“Or maybe it’s writer stuff,” Lila teased, dropping her bag behind the counter. “You’re working on something, aren’t you?”
“Always,” Raisa admitted.
“Good,” Lila said with a wink. “Because you’re way too talented to be only writing for yourself, dufus.”
Raisa’s smile faltered. She loved her writing, but the idea of sharing it—of making herself vulnerable to the kind of judgment she’d spent her whole life avoiding—made her chest tighten. She was also frightened about how her judgmental environment would react to her fantasies.
“It’s nothing more than a hobby,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Lila.
As the morning sun climbed higher, customers trickled in, and Raisa fell into the rhythm of her day. However mundane her life might be, she would keep her fantasies for her stories and stop daydreaming about finding Mr. Right for herself.
Chapter Three
After a brief lull in the steady stream of morning customers, Raisa busied herself with unpacking a box of romantic books featuring young and new adults, while Lila stayed behind the counter preparing for lunchtime. The door swung open, letting in a gust of winter air, but Raisa didn’t feel the cold thanks to the six-foot-four hunk who’d entered.
It was he.
Quinten Carrington.
The handsome boy from high school, Cedarburg’s golden son, was standing in her shop. He was more imposing than she remembered, his frame broader, shoulders filling out the buttery-soft, black leather jacket that looked like it cost more than her monthly rent. His faded black jeans and crisp white shirt were effortlessly casual, but he commanded the room with his presence. Those unruly brown curls were still as wild as they’d been back in school, though now they framed a rugged, more mature face. The short beard was new, lending him an edge that made her breath catch. And his eyes—intense and dark brown, intelligent and piercing under dark eyebrows withthat ever-present sardonic tilt—swept over the shop with casual interest.
Instinctively, Raisa pressed her thighs together and squeezed her eyes shut. A small, traitorous sound tried to escape her lips, but she smothered it before it could embarrass her. She couldn’t let him see her like this—caught between awe and the kind of desire that shouldn’t hit this hard after all these years.
He hadn’t noticed her yet and approached the counter, glancing around with an easy familiarity that was so quintessentially Quinten it made her stomach churn.
“I heard your coffee’s as good as Starbucks,” he said to Lila. His voice was resonant and smooth, carrying a hint of amusement. “Figured I’d give it a try.”
Lila’s head snapped up, and her face lit with recognition. “Oh, my... we. Yes. yes, we’re way better than Starbucks. My boss makes the best coffee in Cedarburg.” She turned, calling out, “Raisa! You’ve got a customer.”
Raisa’s stomach plummeted. She couldn’t stay frozen forever. With great reluctance, she set down the box ofThe Shadowhunter Chroniclesby the popular YA romantasy writer Cassandra Clare and stepped out from behind the bookshelves, her legs wooden as she forced herself to move. Her fingers twitched nervously at her sides as every old insecurity she’d buried since high school came rushing back. Like it wasn’t in the past, the weight of her braces, the pinch of her too-tight clothes, the sting of being ridiculed and ignored rushed back and made her cringe.
Don’t trip. Don’t do something stupid.Her internal mantra grew louder with every step. The counter loomed closer, and with it, Quinten.
When he lifted his gaze so that it landed on her, she swore his eyebrows twitched upward. His lips curled into an easy, almostlazy smile, the kind that had made half the girls in their school swoon.
“You must be the barista,” he said. “I’m Quinten.”
“I know who you are,” Raisa blurted out before she could stop herself. Her cheeks flushed immediately, and she hurried to add, “Welcome. I—uh—what can I get for you?”
Quinten tilted his head to the left, narrowing his eyes as if he were trying to place her. “A latte. Unless you think there’s something better on the menu?”
“The lattes are great,” she said, steadier now. She moved behind the counter, grateful for the barrier between them. “Give me a minute, and I’ll make it for you.”
As she worked, steaming the milk and pulling the perfect espresso shot, she was aware of his eyes on her. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it made her acutely aware of every movement. She focused on her task, her fingers steady even as her mind whirled. The boy who had never given her more than a cursory glance in high school was now here, in her shop, and she had no idea how to handle it.
After sliding the mug across the counter, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “Here you go. One latte. I hope it beats Starbucks.”
