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

Chapter 17

QUENTIN

There”s something about stripping off your day—along with your clothes—that brings everything into perspective.

Standing there in the steamy bathroom, I couldn”t help but admit to myself, I was a total jackass back in the kitchen with Carmina.

The day had been rough, sure. Watching my favorite alley cat, Pork Chop, bleed and rushing her to the vet did a number on me. But that was no excuse to unload on Car.

She”s been nothing but a rock—a pretty hilarious and warm-hearted rock, at that.

Then, my eyes catch something pink peeking out from a cupboard corner—the infamous lost shower cap Carmina was frantically searching for earlier. A soft, involuntary smile breaks through. Grabbing the nearest towel and wrapping it securely around my waist, I decide to make a small peace offering.

Softly, I knock on Carmina”s bedroom door.

No answer.

She must still be in her private bathroom. Walking over, I give a gentle knock before slowly pushing the door open, not wanting to startle her.

”Hey, Carmina, I found your—” The words freeze in my throat. There she is, silhouetted behind the frosted shower glass, shoulders shaking. It”s not the steamy air or the warm water that”s causing her to tremble; it”s sobs that cut through the muffled sound of the running shower.

The pink shower cap, now seemingly trivial, dangles forgotten in my hand as the realization hits me.

Tonight”s been tough on us both, and here I was, focused on my own pain, oblivious to hers. Taking a deep breath, the last thing I want is for Carmina to feel even more isolated in her sorrow.

My voice, softer than the steam whirling around us, is barely above a whisper as I drop the cap. “Fuck,” I swear, coming closer to the glass wall. I hesitate. “Sanchez?”

Nothing. No response.

Again. “Sanchez?”

I wait. Still nothing. ”Carmina, darling.” I release a steady breath. “Can I come in?” For what feels like an eternity, there”s only the sound of water cascading to the floor, wrapping the moment in a delicate tension. Then, she turns, her form a blur behind the frosted glass, and gives a slight nod. It”s all the permission I need.

The beautiful glass door opens with a gentle pull, and I step into the warm cascade, still wrapped in my towel—which now seems utterly ridiculous.

But none of that matters when I wrap my arms around her, the water immediately soaking through the fabric, binding it to my skin.

Carmina clutches onto me, her skin bare against mine, and in this moment, the rest of the world—the tension, the quarrels, even the fabric of my towel—seems to dissolve into the steam around us.

She lifts her tear-stained face to mine, eyes glistening with a vulnerable rawness that tightens my chest. And then, she kisses me.

The world narrows down to this single, electric point of contact. It”s a kiss that speaks volumes, conveying apologies, comfort, and shared pain without a single word.

And I kiss her back, holding her tight as if she might slip away from me.

We finally pull apart, both breathing heavily. The shower continues to stream around us, masking the sound of our shaky breaths. ”I”m sorry,” we say simultaneously.

Carmina sniffs softly, laughing, and I join her. In this quiet moment, with her in my arms and water cascading around us, nothing else matters.

Not the past. Not the future.

Just this beautiful, mentally-exhausted, emotionally wrung-out woman in my arms.

Still enveloped in the warmth of the shower, and with the water creating a world that”s ours alone, I gently take the lead. There”s an unspoken understanding between us as I reach for the shampoo.

Carefully, I massage the scented gel into her beautiful dark hair. It”s a moment steeped in quiet intimacy, with the warm water a soft symphony in the background.

The way the droplets cling to her lashes. The soft sighs that escape her lips. It all seems to weave a spell around us as I watch the suds glide down her back.

Reaching for the conditioner, I work it through her hair with the same care and precision. And as I rinse it out, she leans back against me, her head resting on my chest.

Desire surges through me, but I push it down.

This isn”t about that.

I remove my hands, not wanting to disrupt the moment, and pause for a beat before slipping my fingers onto her shoulders. ”Ready to get out?” I murmur, and she nods, her eyes turning to meet mine with a quiet gratitude.

With utmost care, I turn off the water and reach for the towels. Wrapping the fluffiest one I can find around her, I then wrap myself.

Lifting her is easy; she”s light in my arms, and there”s something profoundly fitting about carrying her to her bedroom—the soft, elegant space that so perfectly reflects her.

Laying her down on the lush bed, I see a flicker of something like fear in Carmina”s eyes as I move to leave. Her hand catches mine, a silent plea in her eyes as her mouth moves softly—a whisper in the dark.

”Stay.”

It”s as if every part of me has been waiting for her to ask.

Sliding under the covers beside her, I pull her close, her back to my chest, and as I wrap my arms around her, I can feel the day”s tension melt away in the warmth of our shared silence.

Drifting into sleep, I realize this is all I”ve ever wanted—this quiet closeness, with her safe in my arms.

* * *

CARMINA

I blink open my eyes, feeling a peace I haven”t known in forever.

The soft hum of my chaotic Saturday house tickles my ears, but the space beside me is cold. Quentin”s warmth is just a memory.

I stretch, turning to grasp the emptiness where he should have been. Instead, my heart skips at the everyday symphony of Gabriela and Valeria gearing up for their day.

Glancing at the clock, I scoff and gasp at the same time.

”Shit, shit, shit.”

Oversleeping on a Saturday. I curse myself for being such an idiot. Scrambling out of bed, I throw on my robe, stumbling into the hallway and nearly colliding with Gabriela.

”Whoa, slow down there,” she laughs, steadying me with a hand on my shoulder.

”I overslept,” I groan. ”I”m so sorry, guys.”

”Well, you did have an eventful night last night. No wonder you”re tired,” Valeria chimes in from behind me. I blush at the memory, hoping she’s only referring to the PG parts.

They make a move for the stairs, and I follow them.

Still breathless, I ask. “Got everything? Gabi, your lucky water bottle? Val, your science project checklist? EpiPen in the same pocket?”

Gabriela rolls her eyes with a grin. ”Yes, Mamá,” she teases, swinging her water bottle like a pendulum. ”And before you start with your twenty questions, yes, Quentin was the superhero who swooped in to save our Saturday. Cooked breakfast, did the laundry, and helped us gather our stuff. Honestly, are you sure you didn”t summon him from some enchanted forest?”

I shake my head. ”Quentin? My Quentin did all that?”

Valeria, always the one to add a dash of drama, nods. ”Yep, he was like a tornado. Made pancakes. Good ones. The kind you see people like Gordon Ramsay make. And I swear our clothes were folded by magical fairies.”

”Gordon Ramsay pancakes, huh?”

”Yep. He even made faces out of blueberries and whipped cream,” Gabi agrees, grabbing her backpack before nudging Val. ”Now, come on, slowpoke. We don”t want to be late.”

They make a move for the door, and I stop them. ”Wait, where are you going?”

Gabi blinks. ”To the car?”

”What car?”

”The car Quentin called for us,” Valeria says slowly, like she”s talking to a child. ”The one that”s going to take us to our activities.”

I stare at them, dumbfounded. ”Quentin called for a car?”

They exchange a look. ”We thought you knew,” Gabi says, frowning.

Val grins, her coke-bottle glasses sliding down her nose. ”The lady who”s driving is supposed to be really nice.”

”Hey, don”t sound so surprised,” Gabi teases, yanking her sister”s glasses off as Val slaps at her. ”Quentin may be your...friend, but he knows how to take care of things.”

I can feel my cheeks flushing as I stumble after them, trying not to trip over my own feet in shock. A car? Quentin called a car for them? And folded the laundry and made Gordon Ramsay pancakes?

I watch them go, still in shock.

Quentin did all that? For my girls?

I feel like I”m on another planet.

Who is this guy who just breezed into our lives and made everything better in a matter of hours? And why does he look and sound so much like Quentin Anderson—my billionaire colleague who, two weeks ago, I hated with the fire of a thousand suns?

I gape as my little sisters wave at me from the backseat of a shiny black sedan. The driver—a kind-looking woman with graying hair—waves back before pulling away, leaving me standing on the lawn in front of my townhouse, completely bewildered.

I shake my head, trying to clear it. This is too much. Too overwhelming. And yet, I can”t stop myself.

I head back inside, mind spinning, heart racing. The scent of maple syrup and flour wafts through the air as I head for the stairs.

I hear the shower running as I climb, one step at a time. My vision blurs as I approach the hallway bathroom, grab the door handle, and push it open.

Inside, steam swirls around a naked Quentin, who stands behind the opaque shower wall. He doesn”t even look up as I enter, just continues to scrub his hair.

”Hey,” he calls out. ”Sanchez?”

I stand there, numb. ”Yeah?”

”I hope you don”t mind. I got the girls ready. I figured you could use a little time for yourself, so I?—”

But I can”t hear anything else. Not over the sound of my heart pounding against my chest.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath.

Untying the sash of my robe, I let it fall to the floor before stepping into the shower with him, letting the hot water wash away all my doubts and fears as I wrap my arms around Quentin”s neck and press my lips to his.