Page 15 of Fixer for the Billionaire

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."

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