Page 26 of His Wisconsin Wallflower (Stateside Doms #25)

Chapter Twenty-Three

The weeks since Vanessa’s body was discovered had been a blur of revelations, guilt, and grief.

The police had held onto the remains, delaying the funeral until Devaney’s full confession had been secured.

She had pleaded involuntary manslaughter and was now incarcerated, awaiting trial.

Raisa couldn’t help the bitter thought that Devaney had managed to get away from Archie—only not in the way she’d wanted.

Devaney’s confession hadn’t surprised Raisa, but Beth’s unexpected apology had.

Two days after Vanessa had been found, Raisa had been stacking books in the sci-fi section when Beth walked into Winslow’s Shelf. Raisa froze mid-movement, and her grip tightened on the stack of books in her hands until the edges of the hardcovers dig into her palms.

A sour twist churned in her stomach. The sight of Beth standing inside the doorway was enough to dredge up a cascade of bitter memories.

Beth, with her impeccable hair and sharp tongue that could cut deeper than any blade.

One of the other girls might not be flanking her this time, but the shadow of their cruel dynamic hung heavy in the air, a reminder of every humiliation Beth had dealt her.

Raisa’s instinct was to turn away, to disappear into the back of the shop where she could busy herself with inventory or hide in the comforting familiarity of her kitchen. But something stopped her.

It wasn’t only Beth’s presence that caught Raisa off guard; it was the way she carried herself.

Her shoulders, usually squared with an air of superiority, were now hunched as if she was bracing herself for a harsh blow.

She lingered just inside the doorway, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

She clutched her purse’s strap like it might slip away if she didn’t hold on tightly.

She darted her gaze around like a butterfly incapable of deciding which flower to land on, before stopping on Raisa. There was something in her expression that Raisa couldn’t place—something tentative, almost… vulnerable.

Raisa shifted the books to her other arm, narrowing her eyes as she waited for Beth to approach.

This wasn’t the confident, cutting woman she’d come to expect.

It was almost as if Beth wasn’t sure she belonged here.

Against her better judgment, Raisa stayed where she was, curiosity rooting her to the spot.

“I need to talk to you.” Beth spoke quieter than usual, the snarky edge gone and replaced with something fragile.

Bracing herself for what was to come from her nemesis, Raisa lowered the books to a shelf and folded her arms. “About what?”

Beth glanced around, hesitating until Raisa motioned to one of the small tables near the window. They sat, the awkward silence stretching between them until Beth blurted, “I was awful to you. I mean, I know that’s not news, but… I need you to understand why.”

Raisa arched a brow but said nothing, waiting.

Beth swallowed hard. “I was jealous. Of you.” Her voice broke slightly, and Raisa’s breath hitched.

Beth continued before Raisa could process the admission.

“You’re beautiful. You always were. And you’re smart.

Like, scary smart. The kind of smart that makes people feel small just by being near you.

” She gave a self-deprecating laugh, brushing a hand through her blond hair.

“I never developed. Not really. Still wearing the same damn bra size I was in high school. Do you know how that feels? Being the cheerleader who has to stuff her bra and pray no one notices?”

Raisa blinked. Was she seriously still hung up on that? In her thirties?

Beth looked down at her hands. “I’ve always hated that insecurity about myself.

And then you walked in with your curves and your smarts, and it was just…

too much. I felt threatened. I lashed out because it made me feel powerful, but it wasn’t.

It was pathetic.” Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry, Raisa. For everything.”

Raisa stared at her for a long moment, the weight of Beth’s words settling over her. After a short deliberation, she nodded. “Thank you for saying that.”

Beth’s eyes lifted, hopeful but wary. “Does that mean you forgive me?”

Raisa hesitated. “I can’t forget the things you’ve done. But… I can move on. I think we both can.”

The tension drained from Beth’s shoulders, and she nodded. “Thank you.”

The memory of Beth’s apology lingered as Raisa adjusted the collar of her black blazer dress in front of the mirror.

The ache of Vanessa’s death remained, but at least one less burden was weighing her down.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Quinten’s resonant voice as he called her name.

She turned as he appeared in the bathroom doorway, devastatingly handsome in his black suit and navy-blue dress shirt. The tie, black with subtle navy pinstripes, draped loosely around his neck, the top two buttons of his shirt still undone, exposing a strip of his skin.

Her breath hitched as she stepped forward. “Let me help you.”

He didn’t move, watching her as she began buttoning his shirt with deft fingers. When the last button was secured, she reached for his collar, flipping it up with a gentle sweep of her hand.

The scent of his cologne, warm and woodsy, filled her senses as she picked up the tie.

She draped the thick silk over her fingers, aligning the ends with care so the wide end hung longer than the narrow one.

Crossing the broad end over the narrow, she looped it up and through the neck opening, pulling it down smoothly before creating the first triangle at the base of his throat.

Her fingers worked with practiced precision, guiding the fabric into place as she moved the wide end over the triangle, tightening it gently.

“You know how to tie a Double Windsor?” His left eyebrow arched up.

She glanced up with a faint smile. “I did research for one of my books.”

Quinten’s brows drew together as if he was trying to remember something. “You’ve mentioned writing books before. What genre do you write?”

She swallowed and dropped her gaze.

His finger under her chin tilted her face, gentle but unyielding, and she met his eyes.

Her mouth went dry, and she croaked, “Erotic fantasy romance.”

“Do you now?” There was amusement in his voice. “Have you been published?”

“No, I’m not,” she spoke so fast the words were knitted together, and her fingers faltered for a second before resuming their work on the knot.

“Yet,” he said firmly.

Her hands stilled, and she looked up at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. Why aren’t you published yet ?”

She shifted uncomfortably, looking away from his intense gaze. “Because I’m not?—”

Before she could finish, he cupped her face in his hands and captured her lips with his, stealing the words from her mouth. The kiss was firm, commanding, and left her mind reeling and her lungs craving oxygen.

When he pulled back after kissing her senseless, his dark eyes glittered with something she couldn’t quite name. “You were not going to say you’re not good enough,” he said, his words low but filled with conviction.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. “Uhm…”

He leaned closer, his forehead resting gently against hers. “You are more than good enough, Raisa. You’re brilliant. And I don’t want to hear you doubt that again.”

Her heart pounded, and for once, she let herself believe him.

With another peck on her lips, he let go of her and turned away. “Are you ready?”

“I’m almost done and just need to brush my hair.” She picked up the heavy wooden brush. “Give me a minute.”

“Sure.” He started to saunter out of the bathroom. “And Raisa, tonight you’re going to read something from your books to me.”

“What?” She halted, the brush hovering midway.

“You heard me. Something hot and heavy. A sex scene.”

Their gazes met in the mirror.

She turned and lifted the brush, intent to throw it at him to see if his pro football self still could catch or if the brush would knock him out. Wickedly fast, he disappeared into the hallway, his laughter loud.

Quinten adjusted his tie as the congregation settled, the murmur of hushed voices falling silent.

The church was packed, the familiar creak of wooden pews a constant background as people shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

The faint scent of incense mingled with fresh-cut flowers arranged near the pulpit.

He glanced to his left where Raisa sat, her hands clasped in her lap, the soft glint of the ring he slipped on her finger less than an hour ago catching the light. His chest tightened at the sight.

Vanessa’s mother sat in the front pew. Her expression was vacant as she stared at the coffin surrounded with flowers.

She leaned into her neighbor, Clarice, who whispered reassurances every so often.

Quinten’s heart ached for her, even though it was obvious the older woman didn’t fully grasp the day’s gravity.

Alzheimer’s had stolen her sharpness, but her fragility made her presence even more poignant.

Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that she didn’t remember how her daughter was the person they were mourning.

The first mournful notes of the organ swelled, filling the church with the familiar strains of “Amazing Grace.” Quinten rose to his feet with the rest of the congregation, the weight of the moment settling heavily on his chest. The melody vibrated in the air, bittersweet and haunting, tugging at the frayed edges of his composure.

Around him, voices joined in—a shaky unison at first, then steadier, the harmony filling the space with an ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.