Page 35 of Fixer for the Billionaire

Be there in fourteen

With a grunt, I set the phone down, resisting the urge to text her again. Ever since that rooftop Saturday night, Carmina is all I can think about. I said I'd give her space and time, and I meant it.

But right now? I need her to keep my head from spiraling into a million pieces.

Doesn't exactly help that this is a first—sacrificing a night out for a night in with the one person I've always considered my ultimate hater.

I'm usually a mastermind at dealing with women, but with Carmina? I'm at a complete loss.

Laughing at what I've turned into, I shake my head and get back to browsing Pinterest.

* * *

CARMINA

It's 6:59, and my eyesight is going blurry by the time Quentin knocks on my office door. He opens it without waiting for my response.

"Sanchez," he declares, plopping down into the chair across from my desk with his laptop bag nestled in his large hands.

I glance at the clock. "You made it on time."

"Don’t look so shocked. I can tell time. Occasionally."

"Yes, and the telling time part would have been even more awesome if you’d waited for me to answer your knock before coming in."

"One step at a time." One side of Quentin’s mouth curls upward. "So... where are we at with the Vegas hotel suites?"

"Well," I stretch my fingers before going back to my laptop, "I’ve successfully procrastinated for another hour by scrolling through social media and answering emails, but now we need to get down to business.”

Quentin grins. “Ah, the classic pre-work ritual.”

“Exactly.” I pause and take a deep breath. “But I've started to think that Vegas might not be the answer."

"What do you mean?" He pushes up the sleeves of his collared shirt.

"I mean, you, your brothers, Killian, Jenny—you all grew up here, smack-dab in the middle of Seattle. I feel like there's something missing from the equation. Maybe we should be looking at spending the bachelor-bachelorette weekend for Ry and Jenny in a place that has more personal meaning to you all."

Quentin nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. "You might be onto something."

"Of course I am," I say with mock confidence. "I'm always right."

"Maybe. Seattle's no Vegas, but it's got its own charm and plenty of options for a wild weekend."

I roll my eyes. “Oh God. Leave it to you to bring up strippers and getting wasted.”

“Hey, I never even mentioned strippers,” he says, holding up his hands. “But now that you mention it…”

"Always thinking ahead, huh?"

"Come on now." Quentin raises an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you haven't been thinking about the bachelorette party. Imagining all those banana hammock-wearing strippers and penis-shaped party favors."

“I haven’t, but thanks for the visual."

"Happy to help." He claps his hands together. "So, what do you say? We knock these two birds-slash-parties out with one stone?"

I think for a minute before nodding. "Okay, let's do it.”

For the next couple of hours, we turn into event-planning ninjas, minus the black outfits and the ability to disappear into thin air—unless you count dodging calls from pesky vendors as a ninja skill.

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