Page 43 of Fixer for the Billionaire

“Ah, yes. I forgot you're a closet nerd."

"Hey now, no need for that kind of language. I prefer 'geek'." He sits up straight, looking at the phone in my hand. "And you're the one who's been on her phone all night. When you're not answering Danity's agent, you're probably scrolling through social media or looking up weaves for your Monday knitting group with Jenny. Grandma."

"I'll have you know my knitting group is very cool, geek." I set my phone on the table. "And you're wrong. I've been browsing bridesmaids' dress options from Jenny, and let me tell you, they're not good."

"What, not a fan of chiffons and satins, Sanchez?"

"I'm not a fan of overpriced dresses I'll never wear again."

"Says the woman who lives in Manolos."

I fall silent for a second. "Yeah, well, things change. People change."

"I can see that." He leans back in his chair, smirking. "The Carmina Sanchez I used to know was always dressed to the nines. Now look at you, barefoot and eating greasy leftovers like the rest of us mere mortals."

"I guess I've learned to embrace my inner geek." I take another sip of my beer. "And let's be honest, those Manolos never fit right anyway. Pretty, but... I never liked them. It was just what people expected. I'm a Mexican-American female exec in a male-dominated industry. There's always that pressure to look and act a certain way. But you know what? Screw that."

"I hear ya." He raises his glass in a mock toast. "To sensible shoes, avoiding bunions, and saying screw it to societal expectations."

"Cheers to that." I clink my bottle against his before frowning. "And hey, I don't have bunions."

"Yet." Quentin laughs, taking another swig of his beer. "Just wait, they'll come for you too. When I was little, my mom wore ridiculous high heels even while vacuuming or doing dishes." He shakes his head fondly. "I thought she was so glamorous, but now I see it was just pure masochism."

"Ha! My mom did the same. Then she'd complain about her feet hurting." I shake my head, smiling at the memory. "Why do we women put ourselves through that?"

"Because society tells us we have to look a certain way," Quentin replies, his voice deepening. "But I think my mom did it to get my dad to notice her." He scoffs, finishing his beer and letting it land on the counter with a thud. "And I guess it worked."

"That's sweet. Maybe there's some method to the madness after all."

"Yeah, it worked so well they went on a trip together to 'reignite the spark.' We all see how that worked out."

The silence that follows is profound. Quentin never talks about his parents' car accident. He was only fourteen when they passed.

I reach out and place my hand briefly on his before pulling it away. "Well, at least you inherited your mom's killer fashion sense."

One side of Quentin's mouth quirks up. "Thanks." He glances at the microwave clock. "But I gotta go. We still have a ton to do for Danity's book launch. And the bachelor-bachelorette parties start next Friday. My brothers have been watching me like hawks, and if we don't do Ry and Jenny justice, we might as well call off their wedding now."

I take a deep breath. "Don't worry, we've got this. The chaos just adds to the charm of their love story." I give him a reassuring smile. "Plus, it's not like we haven't handled last-minute disasters before."

"Not like this, we haven't." Quentin grimaces, rubbing his temples. "I mean, marriage, this commitment stuff... It's a disaster, isn't it? I really don't know why they're even doing this."

"Hey! Don't say that," I interject, almost standing up. "This is Ry and Jenny we're talking about. They're meant to be together. Sure, marriage is a rollercoaster, but it's also filled with love and companionship and?—"

"Bullshit?"

"Quentin..."

"No, seriously, Sanchez. Hasn't the modern world—hell, the publishing world—shown us that nothing lasts forever? We go hard during book launches because we know in a few weeks, it'll be forgotten. We put our blood, sweat, and tears into the perfect story because we know someone else will come along and write something better. It's crazy to think marriage is any different."

He grabs his empty pizza plate and sets it down hard in the sink. My heart skips a beat at the thunking sound.

The hardness in his eyes and the tense set of his jaw tell me playtime is over. He picks up a sponge and starts washing the dish.

Standing, I let out a sigh. "Okay, Quentin? I think you've had a little too much to drink. Let's get you a ride home before you say something you'll regret."

I walk over, reaching for the sponge, but he pulls it away. "I'm fine, Sanchez. You don't have to treat me like a child."

"Then stop acting like one," I retort before I can stop myself.

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