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

Chapter 16

CARMINA

The rain starts just as the cab pulls into my driveway.

After a frantic ride through the city with Quentin”s mangled alleycat in tow, we finally reached the animal hospital. Quentin stayed in the back with the crumpled kitten, cradling it in his arms while I sat up front, giving directions and praying for the poor animal”s survival.

I could hear her faint meows as they rushed her into the emergency room. Inside the waiting room, I paced back and forth, unable to sit still. By the time Quentin emerged, his dark blond hair disheveled and his clothes streaked with dirt and blood, I was a nervous wreck.

”Is she going to be okay?” I asked, my voice trembling.

”They”re working on her,” Quentin said, his voice steely. ”They think she might have been attacked by another animal. They think... she”s got a shot.”

It was enough to give me hope, and I clung to that as we called a ride back to my place.

By the time the car parks in front of my house, the rain is pouring down in sheets. Quentin and I dash out—making a break for it, huddling together until we reach my front door.

I unlock it, grimacing as we step into the messy foyer cluttered with shoes, coats, and bags. If I survive the rest of this night, it”ll be a small miracle.

I glance at Quentin, who”s trying to subtly shake off the rain from his coat. ”Sorry about the mess,” I mumble, stepping out of my wet shoes.

”Don”t worry about it. My place is probably worse, and I have a housekeeper.”

”Must be nice,” I say. ”I”m going to check on the girls. I”ll be right back.”

I reach Val”s bedroom and peek inside to see my eleven-year-old genius sister fast asleep. With a satisfied sigh, I close the door gently and head to Gabi”s room.

Unlike our youngest sister, my seventeen-year-old sibling is sprawled on her bed, headphones blasting music. I gently tap her shoulder, and she jumps up. ”Oh my God, Mina! You scared me!”

”Sorry, Gab. Just wanted to check on you.”

Gabi rolls her eyes, but I see a faint smile. ”I”m fine, as always.” She quickly sits up and turns off her music. ”So, what”s going on? You”re here kinda late.”

”Uh, yeah,” I answer. ”Work ran over, and something else happened. I”ll tell you tomorrow. Anyway, we have company. Quentin”s downstairs.”

”Quentin? Again?” Gabi waggles her eyebrows.

”Don”t start, Gabi. He”s just a coworker. And... maybe a friend.”

”He sounds more like ”friendly” than a coworker, if you know what I mean. And my friend Katie on the soccer team says men and women can never be just friends.”

”Well, as usual, your friend Katie is wrong. And you”re not being subtle with the eyebrows, Gabriela, so yes, I know what you mean. But he”s just a friend, I promise.”

”That”s what Mami used to say about her ”guy friends” before she”d disappear for a week.” Gabi”s smile falls and her voice gets serious. ”So, maybe Katie isn”t so wrong after all.”

A stab of pain shoots through me at the mention of our mother. ”I know,” I say softly, tempted to sit on her bed. ”And trust me, I have no intention of disappearing.”

Some of the tension leaves Gabi”s face, but then her gaze goes guarded again. ”Good. I”d like to keep it that way, if you don”t mind.”

I give her a sad smile. ”I promise, no disappearing acts.”

Reaching over, I try to kiss Gabi”s forehead, but she”s already turning back to her headphones and music.

Sighing, I exit her room and head to the kitchen, where Quentin”s hands are buried in the sink. His dirty collared shirt is off, leaving him in a thin white undershirt. From my vantage point, I can see the curve of every muscle on his chest and arms, along with the faint outline of his Twilight tattoo peeking out from his sleeve.

My lips break out into a grin.

”Hey,” I say, my voice cracking slightly. I clear my throat and try again. ”Hey.”

Washing a sky-high pile of dirty dishes that are now probably so fuzzy I”m afraid to see what they were originally, Quentin looks up, a smile spreading across his face. ”Hey yourself.”

”Need any help?” I ask, leaning against the counter and crossing my arms.

”No thanks, I got this.” He nudges a pile of plates. ”But about the mess,” he snorts over his shoulder, ”you weren”t kidding.”

I place my hands on the side of my head, groaning. ”Ugh. I remember what it was like to come home to a neat and tidy house. Those were the days.”

”Have you considered hiring help?”

”I have. I had a housekeeper until recently, but she moved.” I shrug. ”I haven”t been able to find anyone to fill her place since, and with the girls here...”

Quentin nods, understanding. ”I get it. But hey, at least your house has character. Or rather the dishes do, since they look like something out of Sesame Street.” He winks, and I can”t help but smile. When I reach for a sponge to help him, he grabs my wrist. His large, wet hand completely covers mine, making goosebumps spread up my arm.

”What are you doing?” His golden brown brows pull down.

”Uh, helping?”

”You can help. You can shoot a thank-you to Danity”s agent and publicist for tonight. We got so caught up afterwards, it slipped my mind.”

”Shit. You”re right. I totally forgot to thank Danity at the end of the night for opening for us.” I frown. ”I”ll send them an email tonight.”

”Yeah, do that. I promised her we”d give her a shout-out on social media too, so don”t forget about that either.”

”I won”t,” I say, trying to focus on the task at hand and not Quentin”s touch. ”I”ll make sure she knows you want to thank her for helping men—fictional and otherwise—understand the complicated mind of a woman.”

Quentin grins and releases my wrist. ”You got that right.” He goes back to scrubbing a pot with such intensity that I”m pretty sure he”s trying to erase the past few hours.

I reach for a dish towel. ”But first?—”

”No ”firsts.” You”re not getting out of this that easily.” He hands me my phone, already pulled up to Danity”s agent”s email. ”You do your part, and I”ll do mine.”

I roll my eyes and take the phone from him. ”Fine, fine. Just...don”t nick my quartz countertop, okay?”

”Wouldn”t dream of it.”

My hand is still soapy, still slightly wet from his hand, as I sit at the counter and start to draft a response to Danity”s agent, careful not to muse too much about how a man I thought wouldn”t know how to work a dishwasher is now scrubbing away at my crusty pots and pans.

As I finish up the email, Quentin hands me a clean plate, his green eyes alight. His slightly scruffy jaw is tense, as if he”s trying not to smile.

”Look at that,” he says, gesturing to the spotless plate. ”I”m a natural at this.”

”Let”s not get ahead of ourselves now, Mr. Clean.”

”Hey, I”ll have you know that”s the first plate I”ve washed in like a year.”

I blink. ”You”re kidding.”

”Sadly, no. When you”re the co-founder of a publishing company that”s taken off like a rocket, you don”t have much time for domestic duties.” He leans against the counter next to me. ”But for Danity, I”ll do anything.” He stops. ”You ready for a snack break?”

”Snack break?” I frown. ”But it”s only been—” I glance at the clock. It”s 12:55 am. It”s been half an hour. A whole thirty minutes that I”ve been working on this email.

Quentin wipes his hands. ”I don”t know how you like to work, but hearing my stomach rumble louder than the garbage disposal isn”t really working for me.”

I nod. ”You”re right. Snack break it is.”

Stretching my arms above my head, I stand up and head to the fridge. I grab the leftover pizza and decide to get two beers. I close the fridge door with my foot and head back to Quentin, who”s pulling up a stool.

”Looks like we”re having a pizza party,” I say, handing him a bottle.

He grins, popping the cap off easily. ”With great work comes great reward.”

After nuking a few slices in the microwave, I settle on the stool across from him, a plate of steaming pizza on my lap. We discuss potential marketing strategies for Danity”s upcoming book launch and Ry and Jenny”s bachelor-bachelorette weekend.

By the time I open my second beer, we”re debating the pros and cons of commercialized weddings.

”Come on,” Quentin says, sipping his own second beer. ”The frilly dress and free booze for a night aren”t that bad.”

I grimace. ”Easy for you to say, Mr. Bachelor-for-Life. You don”t have to be trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

”The hell I don”t. Ever tried a tux? My long-lost nemesis.” He scoffs. ”One overly snug waistcoat and suddenly you”re in a hostage situation where deep breaths become a luxury.”

I give him a skeptical look before taking another sip. ”I thought you liked wearing tuxes. You do it so often.”

”Correction: I liked how women looked at me when I was in a tux. Big difference.” He taps the edge of his bottle. ”A tux is like a superhero costume. Sure, it looks sharp, but give me jeans, a vintage tee, and a horror movie marathon any day.”

“Ah, yes. I forgot you”re a closet nerd.”

”Hey now, no need for that kind of language. I prefer ”geek”.” He sits up straight, looking at the phone in my hand. ”And you”re the one who”s been on her phone all night. When you”re not answering Danity”s agent, you”re probably scrolling through social media or looking up weaves for your Monday knitting group with Jenny. Grandma.”

”I”ll have you know my knitting group is very cool, geek.” I set my phone on the table. ”And you”re wrong. I”ve been browsing bridesmaids” dress options from Jenny, and let me tell you, they”re not good.”

”What, not a fan of chiffons and satins, Sanchez?”

”I”m not a fan of overpriced dresses I”ll never wear again.”

”Says the woman who lives in Manolos.”

I fall silent for a second. ”Yeah, well, things change. People change.”

”I can see that.” He leans back in his chair, smirking. ”The Carmina Sanchez I used to know was always dressed to the nines. Now look at you, barefoot and eating greasy leftovers like the rest of us mere mortals.”

”I guess I”ve learned to embrace my inner geek.” I take another sip of my beer. ”And let”s be honest, those Manolos never fit right anyway. Pretty, but... I never liked them. It was just what people expected. I”m a Mexican-American female exec in a male-dominated industry. There”s always that pressure to look and act a certain way. But you know what? Screw that.”

”I hear ya.” He raises his glass in a mock toast. ”To sensible shoes, avoiding bunions, and saying screw it to societal expectations.”

”Cheers to that.” I clink my bottle against his before frowning. ”And hey, I don”t have bunions.”

”Yet.” Quentin laughs, taking another swig of his beer. ”Just wait, they”ll come for you too. When I was little, my mom wore ridiculous high heels even while vacuuming or doing dishes.” He shakes his head fondly. ”I thought she was so glamorous, but now I see it was just pure masochism.”

”Ha! My mom did the same. Then she”d complain about her feet hurting.” I shake my head, smiling at the memory. ”Why do we women put ourselves through that?”

”Because society tells us we have to look a certain way,” Quentin replies, his voice deepening. ”But I think my mom did it to get my dad to notice her.” He scoffs, finishing his beer and letting it land on the counter with a thud. ”And I guess it worked.”

”That”s sweet. Maybe there”s some method to the madness after all.”

”Yeah, it worked so well they went on a trip together to ”reignite the spark.” We all see how that worked out.”

The silence that follows is profound. Quentin never talks about his parents” car accident. He was only fourteen when they passed.

I reach out and place my hand briefly on his before pulling it away. ”Well, at least you inherited your mom”s killer fashion sense.”

One side of Quentin”s mouth quirks up. ”Thanks.” He glances at the microwave clock. ”But I gotta go. We still have a ton to do for Danity”s book launch. And the bachelor-bachelorette parties start next Friday. My brothers have been watching me like hawks, and if we don”t do Ry and Jenny justice, we might as well call off their wedding now.”

I take a deep breath. ”Don”t worry, we”ve got this. The chaos just adds to the charm of their love story.” I give him a reassuring smile. ”Plus, it”s not like we haven”t handled last-minute disasters before.”

”Not like this, we haven”t.” Quentin grimaces, rubbing his temples. ”I mean, marriage, this commitment stuff... It”s a disaster, isn”t it? I really don”t know why they”re even doing this.”

”Hey! Don”t say that,” I interject, almost standing up. ”This is Ry and Jenny we”re talking about. They”re meant to be together. Sure, marriage is a rollercoaster, but it”s also filled with love and companionship and?—”

”Bullshit?”

”Quentin...”

”No, seriously, Sanchez. Hasn”t the modern world—hell, the publishing world—shown us that nothing lasts forever? We go hard during book launches because we know in a few weeks, it”ll be forgotten. We put our blood, sweat, and tears into the perfect story because we know someone else will come along and write something better. It”s crazy to think marriage is any different.”

He grabs his empty pizza plate and sets it down hard in the sink. My heart skips a beat at the thunking sound.

The hardness in his eyes and the tense set of his jaw tell me playtime is over. He picks up a sponge and starts washing the dish.

Standing, I let out a sigh. ”Okay, Quentin? I think you”ve had a little too much to drink. Let”s get you a ride home before you say something you”ll regret.”

I walk over, reaching for the sponge, but he pulls it away. ”I”m fine, Sanchez. You don”t have to treat me like a child.”

”Then stop acting like one,” I retort before I can stop myself.

With both hands clamped on the sponge, dripping soapy water all over the counter (because apparently, we”re reviving the ancient art of sponge wrestling), Quentin and I square off in front of my kitchen sink.

There”s a stare contest unfolding—one I”m not betting on winning.

Behind Quentin”s stormy green eyes, there”s a galaxy of hurt and pain, the kind that”s familiar, that pokes old scars.

And, oh boy, do I get that.

At thirty, you”d think I”d have figured out how to smooth those edges, but nope. They’ve only sharpened.

The moment hangs between us, heavy and sodden like the sponge.

At this close distance, I can see the flecks of gold in Quentin”s irises and smell the scent of black cherry and musk clinging to his skin.

His lightly scruffed jaw ticks, and I remember what it felt like between my thighs. I swallow hard. But before I can say or do anything, Quentin breaks the silence, shaking his head.

He closes his eyes for a second before opening them. ”Jesus. Are we really about to have a sponge fight in your kitchen, Sanchez? This is ridiculous.”

I let out a tired laugh, the tension slowly dissipating. Leave it to Quentin to defuse a serious moment with humor. ”Well, we could always switch to a pillow fight if that”s more your style,” I reply.

That earns me an eye roll and a grin.

”You”re right,” he agrees, letting go of the sponge and leaning against the counter. ”I am being a child. And like a child, I”m going to sit myself in time-out.”

He heads for the exit, and I call after him. ”Look, it”s late. We’ve done a lot tonight. Danity”s reading, the animal hospital, cleaning up.” I inhale softly, exhaling harder. ”Why don”t you get cleaned up? The bathroom you used before is still good to go. Stay. Sleep on the couch. I”ve got plenty of blankets and a Netflix subscription to binge as much horror as you want.”

Quentin pauses at the doorway, his back to me. He doesn”t turn around, but I can tell he”s nodding. His shoulders slump slightly.

”Thanks,” he says softly before disappearing into the living room.

After he”s gone, I”m left alone with my thoughts and a soggy sponge in my hand, not to mention a pounding heart. Cleaning up myself doesn”t sound like a bad idea either.

I listen closely, waiting to hear the sound of Quentin”s shower running. When it finally starts, I head to my room.