Page 29 of Fixer for the Billionaire

I nod, words failing me.

"You good out here?" his voice soft.

"I'm great. Just needed some air," I lie, avoiding his gaze.

He smirks at the construction debris around us. "Nothing like the smell of wet concrete to clear your head."

"Hey, I like that smell. It's...earthy."

He chuckles and leans in. "Yeah, I guess it is."

We fall into silence. After a minute, I ask, "What brings Mr. Popular out here?"

"Needed a break from the dancing and socializing. Can't exactly break dance in a tux." He sighs. "Plus, the view's amazing."

We gaze at the twinkling city skyline, a breathtaking sight of North Seattle.

"Yeah, I forget this view exists," I whisper.

"Me too. Wish I could do this more often..."

"Do what?"

"Escape. Just be alone with my thoughts."

"Hard to do when you're always with someone."

"Me? Nah."

I glance at him. "Really? Because that woman you came with seemed like more than a friend."

He leans back, looking at me. "Delilah? She's just a friend. The best at fixing copiers in the Pacific Northwest."

I laugh without humor. "Delilah, the one who flirted instead of fixing copiers at Hare & Holeton. A real keeper."

He grins, the darkness softening his features. "Sorry to disappoint, but no copier repair babies in our future." He pauses. "And speaking of couples, looks like you're in one."

I turn to him, feeling vulnerable. "What do you mean?"

"Sanchez, I'm not blind. Something's up with you and Alex, that ER doctor. He's the one donating clothes to your wet colleagues, right?"

"First, Alex and I aren't a couple. He's a friend. And you don't know him well enough to judge."

"I do." Quentin's tone changes. "The guy's a moron."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. He breaks up with you, then shows up here pretending nothing happened. And you're okay with that?"

Heat rises to my cheeks as I struggle to remain calm. "You don't know anything about him. Or me, for that matter."

"Don't I know, though? I can always tell when someone's playing someone else.” He steps closer, gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that's almost tangible. "And I do know you, Sanchez."

His eyes trace a path to my lips then back, leaving a sizzling trail.

"Like that defiant tilt of your chin when you're ticked off, or that finger-tapping you do when you're deep in thought—probably dreaming up the next big food fusion." He chuckles, shaking his head. "And those Monday night escapes with Jenny’s knitting crew? You've got an endless supply of dry red—Cabernet, specifically. Plus, enough coffee to keep an army awake." He pauses, a playful smirk forming. "Oh, and your taste in music? Straight from the '90s West Coast. Pumping Too Short, E-40, then switching it up to Snoop and Dre when you're grinding. You've even got a 'Gangsta Grillz' playlist on Spotify."

He edges closer, and my throat goes dry. "And... I know how sweet your lips taste, how soft your skin feels. How you move in ways that leave my head spinning and my heart pumping." His voice drops, a whisper carrying a weight of intimacy. "I know because I've been there, felt it."

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