Fixer for the Billionaire: A Spicy Billionaire Romantic Comedy (Seattle's Anderson Family)

Chapter 3

CARMINA

“Gabriela! Valeria!” I yell, my voice bouncing off the light blue walls of our Seattle townhome. ”Breakfast! Let”s get a move on! Right now!”

Silence.

After Jenny”s hellish declaration last night, I sigh, shaking as I drop scrambled eggs with Serrano peppers and tomatoes onto plates. My spatula-holding hand trembles from the week”s stress.

Juggling pre-launch events for Danity Dandridge”s ”Love in Seattle” series and wrangling my younger sisters has been...a lot. Then there”s yesterday”s Maid of Honor-Best Man bombshell. Quentin Anderson as my pre-wedding partner makes my skin crawl.

The man is sandpaper personified. Rough, abrasive, and annoying.

My ”Try Not to Go Bat-Shit Crazy” list is short but sweet.

Step one: Survive the next eight weeks

Step two: Ensure Jen has her dream wedding

Step three: Remember to breathe

Step four: Don”t strangle my sisters

Step five: Keep Quentin in check (wish me luck)

”Piece of cake,” I mutter sarcastically, eyeing the growing pile of dirty dishes

God, a Cabernet and some E-40 would be perfect right about now, if it weren”t 7 a.m. Taking a deep breath, I smooth my skirt and prep for another shout.

”Gabi! Valeria! Now means now! Get down here or your rancheros are trash-bound.”

Footsteps thump down the stairs.

Seventeen-year-old Gabi appears, dropping her backpack like it”s a mic drop, her annoyance clear. ”You wouldn”t really trash those eggs. You”re always yapping about starving kids.”

I slide her a plate of eggs and beans with a forced smile. ”Keep it up, and you”ll be one of them. Where”s Valeria?”

”Right here!” Valeria, my eleven-year-old clone with an added bonus of Coke-bottle glasses, bounds into the kitchen.

Dressed in yesterday”s clothes, holding a bag that”s definitely violating some health code. ”It”s my science project. A week-old, moldy banana bagel.”

”Gross,” Gabi mutters.

I push a plate toward Valeria, eyeing the bagel with suspicion. ”That”s not one of the pistachio ones, right? Remember your allergy.”

She rolls her eyes. ”It”s banana.”

”And why the repeat outfit, Val? I told you about fishing clothes out of the hamper.”

She rubs her upper arms, her face twisted in outrage. ”What? I mean, I would have. But someone...” She shoots a glance at Gabi. ”Forgot to do laundry last night, so I had to improvise.”

My gaze shifts to Gabi. ”You skipped laundry last night?”

Gabi rolls her eyes. ”I was swamped. Plus, Valeria”s old enough to handle her own laundry.” She looks down at our younger sister, who”s perched beside her at the quartz island. ”Please tell me you”re not wearing those swimsuit bottoms as underwear again.”

Valeria sticks her tongue out at Gabi, who lightly slaps her on the shoulder.

”Enough,” I cut in. ”Gabi, after soccer practice, you”re tackling the laundry. Don”t forget the fabric softener on the shelf. And Valeria,” I turn to our youngest, ”you”re borrowing some of Gabi”s clothes for the science club today.”

Instantly, they erupt, ”No way, she”s not wearing my stuff!” and ”Her clothes will swallow me whole!”

Raising a hand like only a Mexican-mother substitute can, I silence them. ”Escúchame! We need a better Saturday routine. I”m not Mamá. I can”t juggle the laundry and errands alone, okay? I need your help.” My eyes pin them both down. ”Got it?”

They deflate, nodding in unison. ”Yes, Mina.”

”Good. Help out without fuss, and I”ll treat you to gelato after your activities.” I jingle the car keys. ”Deal?”

Their moods lift instantly, and I toss the keys to Gabi.

”Deal!” They chorus, dashing out the door.

I chuckle as they clamber into the car, probably scuffing the leather seats.

It”s been just a month since Gabi and Val moved in, and I”m already caving to their every whim.

Today was supposed to be for party planning for Jen and Ryder”s engagement. But at this pace, I”ll be late.

Ignoring the dishes—again—I pull out my phone to message Freddie Stranton, my do-it-all PR specialist. From business to law, and now PR, she”s seamlessly meshed with my team, bringing her unique zest to our projects.

Despite her varied background, I can tell she”s still searching for her niche. But her energy? Her dedication? Nothing comes close.

I fire off a quick text to let her know I”m running a bit late.

Gonna be a tad late to the engagement party meet-up today. Family drama.

Can you sync up with Quentin Anderson before I make it? He’ll know what’s up

Instantly, my latest PR whiz texts back.

Sure thing. Nothing I love more than working at 7AM on a Saturday ??

A moment passes. Then another.

Just kidding

Seriously, Carmina, you okay? It’s Saturday morning

SATURDAY. MORNING.

Normal people are still asleep, not working. And here you are, not sleeping in or enjoying your day off, but obsessing over Danity Dandridge’s new release?

Look, I’m all for Danity’s novels, but unless the book boyfriends she”s writing about are coming to life and cleaning my pipes (no pun intended), I’m not thinking about work this early on a weekend

Danity’s reading at The Rainy Page isn’t until Monday night. A few more hours of Z’s could actually make me more productive later, right?

Oh, come on. This isn’t about work, Freddie

It’s Jenny and Ryder”s engagement party

And the bachelor-bachelorette party

I’m in charge, and they have to be perfect. Or as close to perfect as I can get

Oh. My bad. But still, couldn”t your Maid of Honor duties have been scheduled during regular business hours? ?

You know, when I’m actually being paid to work?

Freddie”s messages make me smirk. She’s not wrong. But my friends mean the world to me, and this engagement party has to be flawless for my best friend.

It’s not like I can rely on many people.

My dad’s too caught up with his new wife, and my mom...well, that’s a different kind of mess.

Like my dad, she’s a topic I avoid dwelling on too much.

Sighing, I text back.

Forget it. I’ll deal with it when I arrive. Just make sure Quentin knows I might be slightly late

And how did you know I was Jen”s Maid of Honor? It just happened yesterday.

I have friends. They gossip.

Relaying the message to Quentin, no problem, boss lady.

P.S. If there’s anything else to offload, speak now, or I’m going back to bed the moment I hit Send

Freddie”s response brings a smile to my face; I’m thankful to have her on my team. She may be snarky and brutally honest, but she”s dependable, especially in times like these.

Despite a career as scattered as my dad”s financial priorities, Freddie always delivers for me as my go-to PR person.

After sending a quick thank-you, I begin gathering my things.

Ensuring my bra is spaghetti-free this time, I swiftly clean the counters with a sponge nearby.

Leaving the house, I balance my Chanel—now a makeshift kit for child emergencies—over one shoulder.

From my BMW’s passenger seat, parked in the driveway, I hear Gabi shout, ”Hey Mina! Forgot my lucky water bottle for practice. Can you?—”

”Got it!” I interrupt, waving it at her.

Next, Val calls, ”And my science project checklist!”

”Picked it up from the kitchen table. Remember, Val! EpiPen. Right-hand side pocket of your backpack.” Juggling my Chanel, I mutter, ”Your chaos, my command,” as I lock up, moving with the elegance of a three-legged giraffe.

Facing the day’s next hurdle, I notice my BMW’s deflated tire.

Dropping my Chanel, I silently beg the fashion gods for mercy before crouching in my business attire for a closer look.

A nail, lodged firmly in the tread, is the culprit.

I groan, already imagining Quentin’s ribbing about my lack of a spare tire versus designer shoes.

Day 2 as Maid of Honor, and it’s no smoother than Day 1.

Pulling out my phone to call insurance, a text from Quentin blinks up.

SANCHEZ?? WHERE ARE YOU??

I stare for a beat then dismiss it with a flick of my finger.