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

Chapter 9

QUENTIN

As I snap the back cover of Danity Dandridge”s latest hit shut, the room bursts into applause and buzzes with excitement. It”s a triumph, and deep down, I know it.

Reading Danity’s steamy prose aloud is easier than expected, especially with Carmina in the audience, front and center. Her presence makes me nearly forget Danity”s words. I am utterly captivated by Carmina.

Watching her react to the sexual tension between the characters is intoxicating, addictive even. And as the evening progresses, her expressions intensify with each chapter and sip of wine. It feels like directing a live movie, but better, because I am crafting the narrative. I know the risk of staring at her, but her reactions are too compelling. Her earthy-brown eyes widen, cheeks flush, hanging on every word.

As the crowd thins, I wait, watching Carmina pack up. Approaching her, I lean casually against a bookshelf.

”So?” I prod.

She looks up, eyes piercing. ”So...?”

”What did you think of the reading?”

”Honestly?”

”Yes, honestly.”

She sighs. ”It was incredible. Your voice... it just brings Danity”s words to life. I feel like I am in the scene.”

I rock on my heels, impressed. ”That sounded sincere.”

”Because it was.”

Raising an eyebrow, I catch Carmina”s steady gaze, her face unreadable. Seizing the moment, I suggest, ”Since we”re actually talking without resorting to violence, maybe it”s time we talk things out. Ry and Jen”s engagement party is coming up, and I thought, before we go back to our usual antics, we could clear the air. Derek”s place, Sopra, is just down the street. They serve a carbonara that could, frankly, bring about world peace.”

Carmina”s lips twitch into a smile. ”You”re a carbonara man?”

”I”m an ”eat anything” man.” I blink. ”Thought you knew that by now.”

I immediately regret my words, but Carmina just laughs, her laughter filling the bookstore. ”Alright,” she concedes with a smirk. ”A talk. And some carbonara.”

”And no weapons.”

I step aside, letting her lead the way. Carmina heads towards the door, her confidence returning as she nods. ”Deal.”

* * *

CARMINA

I”m not one to hand out compliments to Quentin like candy. But tonight? He”s earned it. That carbonara tip was a game-changer. My first time trying it at Sopra, and it”s heavenly. Then again, so is the wine.

An hour in, I”m working on my second glass and enjoying that warm buzz. The kind that makes everything funnier and smooths over any tension between Quentin and me. Especially as he leans in, his green eyes catching the candlelight.

”Hard to believe we”re actually doing this.”

Raising my glass, I play dumb. ”Doing what?”

”Following our ”planner experts” advice. Fast-tracking all this pre-wedding hoopla.” He rolls his eyes but smiles. ”Feels like we”ve hired a pair of magicians.”

”Hey, let”s not give them ideas. They might charge us for a magic show.” I take a sip. ”But seriously, what do you think about the color scheme?”

Quentin leans back, eyeing my phone with the decor photos. The warm earth tones and modern style seem to win him over. ”I like it. It”s different yet classy. It”s not like we had strong color preferences anyway.”

I nod, relieved. Planning this party felt like navigating a minefield.

”But honestly,” Quentin adds, ”we could”ve just stuck with my first idea.”

I raise an eyebrow. ”Which was?”

”A beach bonfire with a keg and some burgers. Easy, cheap, and fun.”

”And totally cliché.”

He shrugs. ”Clichés work for a reason. People love them.”

”I”m glad we aimed higher than a cliché engagement party. This will be unforgettable.”

Quentin toasts to that. ”To a night we”ll always remember.” Glasses clink. ”Now we just need to finalize things with the DJ.” He grimaces with his next sip. ”And let”s not have a repeat of the Dr. Dre marathon.”

”Excuse me?”

”Don”t play innocent. If I can”t show off my breakdancing, you”re not turning the floor into a 90s hip-hop scene.”

”Those are classics, not just my favorites.”

Quentin”s look has me admitting, ”Fine, maybe I”m a bit obsessed with 90s West Coast hip-hop. But hey, I”m from Oakland. And who doesn”t love a good throwback?”

”Sanchez, you know ”California Love” by heart. I”ve seen your Roger Rabbit move, which is definitely older than we are.”

”Okay, guilty. Maybe we”ll throw in some current hits too.”

”So, something from this century?”

I can”t help but tease back. ”For that comment, I”m requesting Biggie.”

”Trying to reignite the East Coast-West Coast feud? This is a peaceful celebration.”

Our laughter fills the space, easing any lingering tension. Quentin, in his flawless suit, looks every inch the successful executive, but there”s a playfulness in his eyes I only get to see when we”re alone like this.

No clients, authors, or coworkers around. Just us.

I place my glass down. ”Looks like we”re all set.”

Quentin”s gaze is gentle. ”Yeah, we are.”

”Great. Should we get the check?”

He blinks once, then he”s back to his usual self. ”Sure.” He signals the waiter. We finish our drinks, hashing out the last details for the party. Before we leave, he orders pork chops to go. Once they arrive, he wraps them in a cloth napkin, tying it with a neat bow. I can”t help but stare.

”What are you doing?”

He shoots me a grin. ”You”ll see.”

Outside Sopra, he ”pssts” from an alleyway. Despite thinking he”s lost it from all the party planning, I”m curious. He”s gesturing toward a small stray cat with a crooked tail, the dirtiest but most adorable orange tabby I”ve ever seen.

”She”s a sweetheart. Just keep your distance.”

”Why?”

”Bladder issues,” he says, wrinkling his nose. ”I can smell it.”

”Thanks for the heads-up,” I laugh.

”Always,” he replies.

Despite the cat”s condition, Quentin picks her up. She purrs, snuggling against him, oblivious to the grime she”s smearing on his shirt. Yet, he doesn”t mind. This is Quentin at his most charmingly illegal. As we wait for my ride, he sets the cat down, and she watches us with big, thankful eyes.

”Animal lover, huh?” I ask.

”Always. They”re simpler than people.”

He mentions how his parents vetoed pets before their accident, considering them too much responsibility.

”And you agreed?” I tease.

”Well, with five boys at home, pets were the least of their worries.”

I think about my own tumultuous family life—the fights, the screams. ”I get it. Still, it”s sad you couldn”t have a pet.”

“Ah, I’m over it now. I figure maybe they had it right. Pets die. Hell, people die.” He shrugs, walking beside me. ”If you”ve got nothing, you”ve got nothing to lose.”

I frown, my throat suddenly tight. But before I can respond, our car arrives.

”Here we are,” he announces, holding the door open for me.

Climbing in, I manage a strained smile. ”Thanks for tonight. For everything.”

”Of course,” he replies, smirking. ”I had fun, believe it or not. And you”re welcome.”

His green eyes sparkle in the dim Seattle light, aware of his allure. My heart races, but I just cough awkwardly. ”See you at the party Saturday?”

”Wouldn”t miss it,” he closes the door with a soft thud.

As the car pulls away, I lean back and close my eyes. Quentin”s presence and his scent—a leather and warm wood fragrance—linger like a warm afterglow.

Against all my good sense, I wrap my arms around myself, basking in both the whole way home.