Page 44 of Fixer for the Billionaire

With both hands clamped on the sponge, dripping soapy water all over the counter (because apparently, we're reviving the ancient art of sponge wrestling), Quentin and I square off in front of my kitchen sink.

There's a stare contest unfolding—one I'm not betting on winning.

Behind Quentin's stormy green eyes, there's a galaxy of hurt and pain, the kind that's familiar, that pokes old scars.

And, oh boy, do I get that.

At thirty, you'd think I'd have figured out how to smooth those edges, but nope. They’ve only sharpened.

The moment hangs between us, heavy and sodden like the sponge.

At this close distance, I can see the flecks of gold in Quentin's irises and smell the scent of black cherry and musk clinging to his skin.

His lightly scruffed jaw ticks, and I remember what it felt like between my thighs. I swallow hard. But before I can say or do anything, Quentin breaks the silence, shaking his head.

He closes his eyes for a second before opening them. "Jesus. Are we really about to have a sponge fight in your kitchen, Sanchez? This is ridiculous."

I let out a tired laugh, the tension slowly dissipating. Leave it to Quentin to defuse a serious moment with humor. "Well, we could always switch to a pillow fight if that's more your style," I reply.

That earns me an eye roll and a grin.

"You're right," he agrees, letting go of the sponge and leaning against the counter. "I am being a child. And like a child, I'm going to sit myself in time-out."

He heads for the exit, and I call after him. "Look, it's late. We’ve done a lot tonight. Danity's reading, the animal hospital, cleaning up." I inhale softly, exhaling harder. "Why don't you get cleaned up? The bathroom you used before is still good to go. Stay. Sleep on the couch. I've got plenty of blankets and a Netflix subscription to binge as much horror as you want."

Quentin pauses at the doorway, his back to me. He doesn't turn around, but I can tell he's nodding. His shoulders slump slightly.

"Thanks," he says softly before disappearing into the living room.

After he's gone, I'm left alone with my thoughts and a soggy sponge in my hand, not to mention a pounding heart. Cleaning up myself doesn't sound like a bad idea either.

I listen closely, waiting to hear the sound of Quentin's shower running. When it finally starts, I head to my room.

Chapter Seventeen

QUENTIN

There's something about stripping off your day—along with your clothes—that brings everything into perspective.

Standing there in the steamy bathroom, I couldn't help but admit to myself, I was a total jackass back in the kitchen with Carmina.

The day had been rough, sure. Watching my favorite alley cat, Pork Chop, bleed and rushing her to the vet did a number on me. But that was no excuse to unload on Car.

She's been nothing but a rock—a pretty hilarious and warm-hearted rock, at that.

Then, my eyes catch something pink peeking out from a cupboard corner—the infamous lost shower cap Carmina was frantically searching for earlier. A soft, involuntary smile breaks through. Grabbing the nearest towel and wrapping it securely around my waist, I decide to make a small peace offering.

Softly, I knock on Carmina's bedroom door.

No answer.

She must still be in her private bathroom. Walking over, I give a gentle knock before slowly pushing the door open, not wanting to startle her.

"Hey, Carmina, I found your—" The words freeze in my throat. There she is, silhouetted behind the frosted shower glass, shoulders shaking. It's not the steamy air or the warm water that's causing her to tremble; it's sobs that cut through the muffled sound of the running shower.

The pink shower cap, now seemingly trivial, dangles forgotten in my hand as the realization hits me.

Tonight's been tough on us both, and here I was, focused on my own pain, oblivious to hers. Taking a deep breath, the last thing I want is for Carmina to feel even more isolated in her sorrow.

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