Page 8 of His Wisconsin Wallflower (Stateside Doms #25)

Chapter Seven

The butter melted in the pot, sizzling pleasantly as Quinten sautéed the onions. The rich aroma filled the kitchen, creating an odd sense of warmth and familiarity. Raisa busied herself wiping an already clean counter, her movements brisk and precise, while her gaze kept straying to him.

“What’s your favorite recipe, Mrs. Winslow?” Quinten asked, like it was the most normal thing in the world for him to be standing in their kitchen, making beer cheese soup. He added the garlic, hot sauce, Worcestershire sauce, and seasonings as he waited for her grandmother to answer.

“Call me Nana,” her grandmother said with a laugh, waving him off from the table where she sat, nursing her tea.

Raisa’s eyebrows shot up.

Call me Nana?

Clearly, he’d already charmed her grandmother. It was hard to reconcile this version of Quinten, so at ease and respectful, with the boy she remembered—the one who had laughed so carelessly when Beth made Raisa trip in the cafeteria, sending her tray of spaghetti spilling onto the floor.

“Clumsy Raisa strikes again!” Beth had sung, her laugh echoing in the crowded room. Quinten had been sitting with the popular crowd, his chuckle blending with theirs as Raisa scrambled to gather her dignity, along with her tray.

“Raisa?” Quinten’s voice pulled her back to the present.

She blinked, gripping the edge of the counter. “What?”

“I said, could you pass me the flour?” He gestured with the spoon, his grin easy but questioning. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she hurried to say, distracting herself by grabbing the bag of flour and setting it on the counter with a thud. Her pulse thrummed as she stepped back, brushing her hands over her jeans.

“Thanks,” Quinten said, sprinkling the flour over the softened onions and stirring it in to create a roux. “You come off as distracted.”

“Just thinking about work,” she lied, crossing her arms. And high school. And how much I hate that you’re making yourself so damn hard to hate.

Nana chuckled loud enough to cut through the tension. “You’re doing great, Quinten. I can already tell this is going to be delicious.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Er, Nana,” he corrected with a sheepish smile. He poured the chicken broth in slowly, whisking with steady movements. “This soup always reminds me of my own grandmother. She used to make it on game nights.”

Raisa tightened her arms across her chest. “Big family tradition?”

He nodded. “Yeah. My grams was all about traditions. She said they gave life structure.” His voice softened, his whisking slowing for a moment before resuming its steady rhythm. “She’d be happy to know I’m still keeping it alive.”

His sincerity made Raisa’s chest ache. She glanced at Nana, who was beaming at Quinten like he was the best thing to happen to their kitchen in years.

Okay, granted, he was a fine specimen to look at—the way he moved with ease, the confidence he exuded, whether it was on the playing field, speaking to the press, or standing in their kitchen making dinner.

Yeah, she’d kept tabs on him, followed his career, and had never gotten over her crush on him, darn it!

Crumbling some of the cheese grates between her fingers, she forced her mind back to the present. Grandmother. He’s talking about his grandmother. “She sounds like a great woman.”

“She was.” Quinten met her gaze for a beat, something wordless passing between them before he turned back to the pot. “Mom and Dad were always busy with the company, so Grams was a big fixture in mine, Corbin, and Gavin’s life. That woman raised us.”

“And a fine job she did.” Nana rose and scuffled to the sink to place her empty tea mug.

“Nana, I could have done that.” Raisa stepped closer.

“Nonsense, girl, I need to keep using these old joints, otherwise they will rust.”

“She’s right, you know.” Quinten took the chopping board from her and added the cheese a handful at a time. “Use it or lose it.”

Nana chuckled and went back to sit at the kitchen table. “Smart lad. I like him.”

Yeah, yeah, that much is obvious enough. Well maybe you should date him, then.

Disconcerted by her thoughts, because this wasn’t a real date anyway, she instructed Quinten, “You should lower the heat to ensure the dairy doesn’t separate.”

He tipped his chin and gave her a straight look. “You know, for someone who’s not cooking, you’re awfully bossy.”

“Somebody has to keep you on track.” Despite her plummeting mood, a small smile tugged at her lips.

“Oh, I’m perfectly capable,” he shot back with a grin. “I made this soup often when I got a little homesick in during my stay in Green Bay, back when I was with the Packers. It was only a little over a one-hour drive, but I didn’t manage to get home often due to my training and game schedule.”

Raisa tried to stay in the moment, as she, her nana, and Quinten talked about his time in Wisconsin, the small changes in Cedarburg, and favorite recipes.

“I’m sorry you lost your grandmother, lad.

Eileen was a wonderful and kind woman, and her embroidery was exquisite.

” Despite Raisa’s protests, Nana rose against to fetch spoons from the drawers.

“Your family has suffered quite the setbacks lately. First the financial problems, then your granny died, before your dad’s horrible accident.

” Nana shook her head, while she sank back in her chair. “Life is hard.”

“Life usually is.” His tone was even but his shoulders stiffened, and he turned back to the soup, stirring it one last time before ladling it into bowls Raisa handed him. “But it’s still worth living. Especially when you get to taste Gram’s soup!” He handed Raisa a bowl.

She welcomed the comforting warmth of the bowl in her hands, the heat seeping through the ceramic and comforted her as she placed it carefully in front of Nana, letting the rich aroma of the soup fill the room.

“It smells divine.”

Quinten placed a plate of bratwurst, bacon, and a small bowl with green onions on the table, along with some rolls. “The bread is store-bought, I’m afraid. I would give my throwing arm for homemade biscuits or rolls, but I never got the hang of baking.”

“Well.” Nana winked. “Lucky you are sharing a table with the finest baker in town.”

“Nana!” The heat rose in her cheeks. She almost jumped when Quinten placed his hand over hers.

“She’s right, you know. I’ve sampled your pastries. They are to die for.”

Judiciously, she extracted her hand from underneath his palm. “Let’s see if the same goes for your soup,” she said, lifting the spoon from the table to dip in the bowl.

Quinten’s grin widened. “I think you’ll find it does.”

They fell silent as all three concentrated on devouring the food, the soup’s scent mingling with the bread’s yeasty fragrance.

Raisa savored every bite; the soup was excellent, creamy, and seasoned to perfection.

For a moment, she almost forgot the weight of the past. Quinten was unexpectedly great company.

He was attentive to Nana, genuinely interested in Raisa’s shop, and spoke knowledgeably about the world beyond Cedarburg.

To her surprise, she discovered he was active in several charities, including the local animal shelter she supported.

After the meal, Quinten stood and began clearing the dishes without being asked.

He stacked the bowls with ease, rinsed them at the sink, and set them in the dishwasher, moving through her kitchen like he’d done it a hundred times.

Raisa watched, too surprised to stop him.

This new version of him was disarming—so much so she nearly allowed herself to relax.

Her tension returned when Nana pushed herself up from the table. “Well, I think I’ve had enough excitement for one evening. These old bones need to rest. Thank you for the flowers and this lovely dinner, Quinten.”

“My pleasure, Nana,” he said, helping her to her feet.

Raisa sat back in stunned silence as he guided her grandmother toward the hall, his hand light on her elbow. His gentleness tugged at something buried inside her.

When he returned, he leaned against the counter, his gaze settling on Raisa. “I’m not the same guy I was in high school, you know.”

Her stomach twisted. “What makes you think I’m still hung up on high school?”

“Come on.” He raised an eyebrow. “You can hardly look at me without flinching. Look”—he rubbed the back of his neck—“I messed up the first time by using your old nickname. I’m sorry.”

She swallowed hard, her grip tightening on her spoon until the edge dug painfully into her palm. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I was and will always be Wallflower Winslow.”

“The hell you are.” With two steps he was beside her chair. He pulled her up, and slammed his mouth over her lips.

Quinten hadn’t intended to kiss her, but now that he was, he couldn’t stop. Somehow, this woman appealed to the best of him—wanting to covet and court like some old-days’ gentleman—she also conjured his worst to the surface, making his inner caveman want to dominate, tease, and fuck her senseless.

Her taste was intoxicating, the mix of sweetness and warmth more addictive than any victory on the field. Initially, her body had gone rigid in his arms, maybe in shock or surprise or maybe from inexperience.

Don’t screw this up. He allowed the kiss to linger long enough to let her set the pace. He brushed his lips against hers again, more teasing than demanding this time, coaxing her.

When he flicked his tongue featherlight against the seam of her lips, she opened for him, and he didn’t hesitate. He deepened the kiss, sliding one hand to cradle the back of her head while resting the other lightly on her waist.

Her body softened, her curves molding against him in a way that made his pulse race. The tentative way her fingers curled into his shirt sent a rush of protectiveness through him, cutting through the heady mix of desire.

She did trust him—if only for this moment—and that trust was more precious than anything he’d held in his life.

He pressed his thigh against her core and swallowed her moan.

But it wasn’t only about the lust between them.

He wanted more—needed everything she had to give and then some.

He craved not only her delectable body pressed against his, but her laughter, her sharp wit, and her guarded but perceptive mind. In short, he wanted all of her.

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 his body 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.