Page 18 of Fixer for the Billionaire

"Yeah." I blink. "So?"

He arches an eyebrow. "Just curious if there's a story behind those clothes. How they ended up here and not with Alex."

"It's really none of your business, Quentin." I cross my arms. "But if you must know, he left them here last time he... helped me move a couch."

"Ah, moving furniture. The go-to ex-boyfriend hobby."

"Are you going to take the clothes, or would you prefer a dramatic exit in a robe?"

Quentin glances at his damp clothes then back at me, sighing deeply. “You know, a dramatic exit doesn’t sound half bad. Adds a bit of flair, don't you think?"

He grabs his wet clothes, throws me a cryptic look, and heads for the stairs. Even in a robe that's too small, his tall, muscled frame is hard to ignore.

My body, still vivid with his touch, wants to follow him. To explain. Or to stop him.

But my mind, finally kicking in, knows it's futile.

Nothing good can come from anything "more" with Quentin Anderson.

So I stay put, watching as he takes the stairs, leaving me with my jumbled emotions and lips still tingling from our kiss. The moment the front door closes, I slump, then hurry back to my bedroom.

I’ve got work to do. And an engagement party to plan.

Feeling a tightness in my chest, I grab my phone off the bed and text my employee Freddie, ready to redirect my focus where it needs to be.

Chapter Eight

CARMINA

"So, let me get this straight. Mr. Tall-Dark-Blond-and-Handy, Quentin Anderson himself, swooped in to play your knight in shining armor, entertained your sisters with his not-exactly-PG horror movie reenactments, and then shared a rom-com-worthy magic moment with you, all before speeding off into the rain because you suggested he wear one of Alex’s old band T-shirts?" Jenny asks, peeking over a creaky bookshelf with her hazel eyes wide with amusement.

Strolling through the cozy, cluttered aisles of "The Rainy Page," a beloved local bookstore in downtown Seattle known for its charm and impressive collection of local authors, pride swells inside me.

Here, just two days after the Quentin-car debacle, nestled among weathered bookshelves and the comforting scent of old pages, the stage is set for tonight's early book reading of the latest "Love in Seattle" series by Danity Dandridge.

This is my element.

As PR Director at Hare & Holeton, it's my job to generate as much pre-release hype as possible, and what better way than a quaint bookstore event on a rainy Seattle Monday evening?

Jenny is by my side, ensuring everything is perfect for tonight. Amidst checking microphone levels and arranging chairs, we inevitably circle back to pre-wedding plans and the disaster that was my Saturday—or rather, the disaster it wasn't, thanks to my uncanny knack for butting heads with Quentin over everything.

I nod, still reeling from the whirlwind that was Saturday morning with Quentin.

"It was unexpected," I admit, playing with the gold necklace at my collarbone. "Especially the part where he changed his tire in less time than it takes to say 'pit stop' after—we kissed."

Jenny's eyebrows rocket upwards, her expression turning devilishly gleeful. "Oh, honey, that man didn't just bolt because of some ex’s raggedy T-shirt. Quentin was jealous. The green-eyed monster was out in full force."

I scoff. "Jealous? Quentin? The guy thinks dating is a competitive sport."

"Carmina, dear, it doesn't take a detective to see through him. He's as transparent as my grandma’s lace curtains," Jenny says, giving me a knowing wink. "We need a strategy for tonight’s reading. Given our luck, Mr. Fix-It might just show up with a bouquet of apologies or, more likely, another horror story to share."

The idea sends a shiver of excitement through me, tinged with nerves. Quentin Anderson, jealous and making an appearance tonight? That's a twist not even Danity Dandridge could have imagined.

"So, how did the rescheduled meeting go? You mentioned it was a 'business meeting' the next day, right?" Jenny probes, her eyes twinkling with anticipation for some juicy details.

Desperate to keep the real agenda—planning decor for her engagement party—a secret, I keep my gaze on the bookshelves as we walk.

"Well," I sigh, "it went about as smoothly as you'd expect with Quentin and me barely speaking. I had to mentally blast Tupac just to stop myself from snapping at him."

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