Page 42 of Fixer for the Billionaire

"Uh, helping?"

"You can help. You can shoot a thank-you to Danity's agent and publicist for tonight. We got so caught up afterwards, it slipped my mind."

"Shit. You're right. I totally forgot to thank Danity at the end of the night for opening for us." I frown. "I'll send them an email tonight."

"Yeah, do that. I promised her we'd give her a shout-out on social media too, so don't forget about that either."

"I won't," I say, trying to focus on the task at hand and not Quentin's touch. "I'll make sure she knows you want to thank her for helping men—fictional and otherwise—understand the complicated mind of a woman."

Quentin grins and releases my wrist. "You got that right." He goes back to scrubbing a pot with such intensity that I'm pretty sure he's trying to erase the past few hours.

I reach for a dish towel. "But first?—"

"No 'firsts.' You're not getting out of this that easily." He hands me my phone, already pulled up to Danity's agent's email. "You do your part, and I'll do mine."

I roll my eyes and take the phone from him. "Fine, fine. Just...don't nick my quartz countertop, okay?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

My hand is still soapy, still slightly wet from his hand, as I sit at the counter and start to draft a response to Danity's agent, careful not to muse too much about how a man I thought wouldn't know how to work a dishwasher is now scrubbing away at my crusty pots and pans.

As I finish up the email, Quentin hands me a clean plate, his green eyes alight. His slightly scruffy jaw is tense, as if he's trying not to smile.

"Look at that," he says, gesturing to the spotless plate. "I'm a natural at this."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves now, Mr. Clean."

"Hey, I'll have you know that's the first plate I've washed in like a year."

I blink. "You're kidding."

"Sadly, no. When you're the co-founder of a publishing company that's taken off like a rocket, you don't have much time for domestic duties." He leans against the counter next to me. "But for Danity, I'll do anything." He stops. "You ready for a snack break?"

"Snack break?" I frown. "But it's only been—" I glance at the clock. It's 12:55 am. It's been half an hour. A whole thirty minutes that I've been working on this email.

Quentin wipes his hands. "I don't know how you like to work, but hearing my stomach rumble louder than the garbage disposal isn't really working for me."

I nod. "You're right. Snack break it is."

Stretching my arms above my head, I stand up and head to the fridge. I grab the leftover pizza and decide to get two beers. I close the fridge door with my foot and head back to Quentin, who's pulling up a stool.

"Looks like we're having a pizza party," I say, handing him a bottle.

He grins, popping the cap off easily. "With great work comes great reward."

After nuking a few slices in the microwave, I settle on the stool across from him, a plate of steaming pizza on my lap. We discuss potential marketing strategies for Danity's upcoming book launch and Ry and Jenny's bachelor-bachelorette weekend.

By the time I open my second beer, we're debating the pros and cons of commercialized weddings.

"Come on," Quentin says, sipping his own second beer. "The frilly dress and free booze for a night aren't that bad."

I grimace. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Bachelor-for-Life. You don't have to be trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey."

"The hell I don't. Ever tried a tux? My long-lost nemesis." He scoffs. "One overly snug waistcoat and suddenly you're in a hostage situation where deep breaths become a luxury."

I give him a skeptical look before taking another sip. "I thought you liked wearing tuxes. You do it so often."

"Correction: I liked how women looked at me when I was in a tux. Big difference." He taps the edge of his bottle. "A tux is like a superhero costume. Sure, it looks sharp, but give me jeans, a vintage tee, and a horror movie marathon any day."

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