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

Chapter 6

QUENTIN

As I pull up in front of Carmina”s subdued townhouse, nestled in one of Seattle”s quieter parts, the heavens unleash their fury. The rain pounds on my Escalade”s roof, mimicking a troupe of tap-dancing elves in steel-toed boots.

Turning off the engine, I brace to sprint for cover, but something feels... off.

”We”ve got a problem,” I barely shout over the rain to Carmina.

Beside me, she stiffens. ”What now?”

Stepping into the deluge, the chill seeps into my bones. I discover several nails partying in my tire. Cursing, I touch the cold car, my grip tightening.

”Flat tire,” I announce, inspecting the deflated rubber.

Carmina pokes her head out, her voice nearly lost to the rain. ”Seriously?”

I look at her. ”Not enjoying a soak here. Unless you think I”m aiming for a wet t-shirt contest win?”

Her glare could freeze the rain. ”You”re prime for pneumonia. Can you even change a tire?”

Determined, I grab my jacket, futile against the rain, and head for the spare tire and tools.

The universe, insisting on my humility, aims every drop at me. Carmina, seeking refuge under my truck”s awning, finds the umbrella. ”For a smooth guy, this ”heroic” moment”s a flop.”

I shoot back a look, soaked. ”Jump in any time. Misery loves company. And if pneumonia takes me, you”ll have to explain to everyone why you stood by, offering nothing but sarcastic commentary.”

Her laughter blends with the rain. ”I”ll watch you make a splash.”

As I struggle with the lug nuts, she offers to hold the umbrella. I grunt, accepting help, passing tools. ”It”s like a toddler with a puzzle,” she observes.

From my knees, I retort, ”Your turn, then.”

”Nope. That”s why I have the umbrella.”

Back at the tire, I mutter, ”Great job with that.”

”Calm down, Tarzan of the Torrential Downpour. This rain”s not letting up.

”Oh, the rain”s bothering you? Maybe let”s switch,” I snap.

She hands another tool, narrowing her eyes. ”No need to get into a tizzy, Rain Man. Just a few bolts left. Or...we could wait it out. At my place. It”s dry. Just saying.”

I shoot her a pointed look as I wrench off the last lug nut. ”Is that actually an invite, or just your clever way of dodging the rain?”

”I”ll leave that up to you to decide. Either way,” she says, eyeing the sky as another lightning bolt tears it apart, ”doesn”t look like we”ve got much choice. This storm”s settling in for a long haul.”

I sigh, defeated, standing up and collecting my tools. ”Fine. But if I end up with pneumonia because your house is a swamp, I”m holding you responsible.”

Carmina flings the door wide. ”Hurry up then. Don’t wanna turn into Quentin, the Human Sponge,” she teases. I almost let out a laugh—a rare win around Sanchez—as I shuffle inside, leaving the storm”s fury behind.

Stepping into the warmth of her house feels like a hug, loosening my stiff limbs. But when I look around the foyer, my eyes pop.

I”d imagined the inside of Carmina”s place a few times, but this wasn”t it.

The entrance looks like it”s survived an epic showdown—good vs. evil, where evil”s a horde of laundry still seeking its home, and good... well, good”s still MIA.

Notebooks, colored pens, and what seems like the contents of a school locker are scattered everywhere.

Dodging a suspiciously sticky comic book on the floor, I sidestep a rogue sneaker like it”s a landmine.

”Whoa,” I murmur. ”Your place is...”

Carmina catches my look. ”Ah, yeah, welcome to chaos central. My sisters moved in, remember? This,” she gestures at the cluttered floors, ”is their ”artwork.” I”m just waiting for a modern art curator to offer me millions for it.”

”Well, it definitely has... personality. And here I thought you were living the minimalist, Zen life.”

”Minimalist and Zen flew out the window the day those whirlwinds arrived.” She lets out a soft snort. ”Now, I”m just hoping not to end up on a hoarders” show. Aiming high, right?”

”Very lofty. Lead on, Michelangelo. Let”s see the rest of your ”gallery.””

Her slightly damp dark hair swings as she leads me deeper into the house. ”It”s just more of the same. Before the girls, this place was spotless. Now, I”ve got spaghetti stains on top of my spaghetti stains.” She looks at me, shrugs, and says, ”My bolognese is legendary.”

Laughing, the tension from the rain starts to fade. ”Glad to see your cooking hasn”t improved since you started at the company.”

She rolls her eyes, then glances at my outfit.

I blink. ”What now?”

”Um, I said you could come in to get warm and dry. Didn”t say anything about dripping all over my floors.”

Looking down, I see my clothes are soaked through, and I”m covered in mud from the tire.

My eyebrows lift. ”Got any robes?”

She nods, pointing over her shoulder. ”Guest bathroom”s that way. Take off your shoes, and I”ll show you where to clean up.”

As I start removing my muddied shoes, I chuckle. ””Clean up,” huh? Is that your polite way of telling me I reek?”

”Please, Quentin. After the day we”ve had, a skunk would be an improvement.”

”Fair point.”

She kicks off her heels and pads through the elegant foyer.

I can”t help but notice the line of her legs in her tight pencil skirt, her toenails painted the same deep red as her fingernails. Her damp dark hair swings as she turns into the hallway, carrying the scent of her smoky vanilla perfume—a reminder of the company retreat by the lake.

Campfire. Melted chocolate. And her.

Shaking my head, I follow her up the stairs and down a hallway adorned with family photos and artwork.

Carmina pushes open a door to reveal a spacious, black-tiled bathroom. ”Towels and robes are in the laundry closet,” she says, pointing with one manicured finger.

”Thanks,” I mumble, already shedding my wet clothes as she turns and leaves, her footsteps soft.

Trying not to watch her go, I step into the bathroom, my attention immediately captured by the large steamy walk-in shower—evidence of her recent use.

I”m trying but it”s no use. My brain”s doing that thing again—imagining Carmina in the shower, water cascading down those long legs and curves.

I give my head a shake, try to clear those images, and step under the warm spray of my own shower. The hot water”s a godsend after a chilly, damp morning.

I reach for the soap, close my eyes, and there it goes again—my brain, off on its own little adventure.

It”s like a Carmina highlight reel in my head, vivid and unstoppable. I can”t help but wonder if she”s in her shower right now, the water trailing down her skin, soaking into her dark hair.

Maybe she”s humming, lost in a song, or... thinking about company in the shower.

Company like me.

I try to shove that thought away, but it sticks around, persistent. And, oh, look at that, my hand”s got a mind of its own now, making more suds. One thing leads to another, and I’m there, stroking away because, surprise, my dick”s decided to join the Carmina party, too.

Despite my best attempts at self-control, I give in, my grip tightening around my growing erection, the visions of Carmina only getting clearer.

But it”s not enough. Not enough to cool the heat inside, not enough to quench whatever”s been burning between us since that moment our eyes met across the retreat campfire.

Stirred by the visions of Carmina, this damned dick of mine has come alive.

I close my eyes and squeeze harder—from its base to its thickened tip—until the stares behind my eyelids become galaxies.

I come, to the vision of Carmina”s dark eyes and swollen lips.

Post-orgasm, the shower”s still beating down, the silence more intense. I rinse off quickly, dry off with one of her monogrammed towels and throw on a white robe before I”m ready to face the world again.

I yank the door open, only to meet a voice on the other side.

”Hey, Quentin, have you seen my—oh!”

Carmina.

We crash into each other, chest to chest, a warm, startling sensation. Her hands find my biceps in the chaos.

I freeze, and so does she, pressed against me in her white robe, the terry cloth pressing against me.

Her skin is damp, her dark hair brushing her shoulders. I exhale slowly, trying to brace myself against the warmth flooding my body.

”Need something?” My voice comes out raspier than I intended.

Carmina steps back, swallowing hard. ”Uh, yeah. Seen a pink shower cap? Gabi loves swiping my stuff. Ended up using a grocery bag.”

”A grocery bag?”

”To keep my hair dry. I wash it every other—You know what? Never mind.”

”No sweat. Haven”t seen it.”

She nods, our proximity suddenly obvious. The scent of her soap, the hint of coconut shampoo. I notice her breathing, subtle but quick.

”Um, okay,” she says, avoiding my gaze. ”So, I’ll just...”

”Head out?”

”Yeah.”

But she hesitates. Neither of us wants her to go. The very things that should push us apart seem to pull us closer, an undeniable magnetic force.

I lean in. She stands her ground, lips parting slightly.

My gaze drops to her mouth, leaning down slowly, asking for permission she grants by placing a hand on my chest, looking up into my eyes. Then, I kiss her, sealing the silent agreement between us, all those thoughts of shower caps and grocery bags fading quickly away.