Page 46 of Fixer for the Billionaire

I blink open my eyes, feeling a peace I haven't known in forever.

The soft hum of my chaotic Saturday house tickles my ears, but the space beside me is cold. Quentin's warmth is just a memory.

I stretch, turning to grasp the emptiness where he should have been. Instead, my heart skips at the everyday symphony of Gabriela and Valeria gearing up for their day.

Glancing at the clock, I scoff and gasp at the same time.

"Shit, shit, shit."

Oversleeping on a Saturday. I curse myself for being such an idiot. Scrambling out of bed, I throw on my robe, stumbling into the hallway and nearly colliding with Gabriela.

"Whoa, slow down there," she laughs, steadying me with a hand on my shoulder.

"I overslept," I groan. "I'm so sorry, guys."

"Well, you did have an eventful night last night. No wonder you're tired," Valeria chimes in from behind me. I blush at the memory, hoping she’s only referring to the PG parts.

They make a move for the stairs, and I follow them.

Still breathless, I ask. “Got everything? Gabi, your lucky water bottle? Val, your science project checklist? EpiPen in the same pocket?”

Gabriela rolls her eyes with a grin. "Yes, Mamá," she teases, swinging her water bottle like a pendulum. "And before you start with your twenty questions, yes, Quentin was the superhero who swooped in to save our Saturday. Cooked breakfast, did the laundry, and helped us gather our stuff. Honestly, are you sure you didn't summon him from some enchanted forest?"

I shake my head. "Quentin? My Quentin did all that?"

Valeria, always the one to add a dash of drama, nods. "Yep, he was like a tornado. Made pancakes. Good ones. The kind you see people like Gordon Ramsay make. And I swear our clothes were folded by magical fairies."

"Gordon Ramsay pancakes, huh?"

"Yep. He even made faces out of blueberries and whipped cream," Gabi agrees, grabbing her backpack before nudging Val. "Now, come on, slowpoke. We don't want to be late."

They make a move for the door, and I stop them. "Wait, where are you going?"

Gabi blinks. "To the car?"

"What car?"

"The car Quentin called for us," Valeria says slowly, like she's talking to a child. "The one that's going to take us to our activities."

I stare at them, dumbfounded. "Quentin called for a car?"

They exchange a look. "We thought you knew," Gabi says, frowning.

Val grins, her coke-bottle glasses sliding down her nose. "The lady who's driving is supposed to be really nice."

"Hey, don't sound so surprised," Gabi teases, yanking her sister's glasses off as Val slaps at her. "Quentin may be your...friend, but he knows how to take care of things."

I can feel my cheeks flushing as I stumble after them, trying not to trip over my own feet in shock. A car? Quentin called a car for them? And folded the laundry and made Gordon Ramsay pancakes?

I watch them go, still in shock.

Quentin did all that? For my girls?

I feel like I'm on another planet.

Who is this guy who just breezed into our lives and made everything better in a matter of hours? And why does he look and sound so much like Quentin Anderson—my billionaire colleague who, two weeks ago, I hated with the fire of a thousand suns?

I gape as my little sisters wave at me from the backseat of a shiny black sedan. The driver—a kind-looking woman with graying hair—waves back before pulling away, leaving me standing on the lawn in front of my townhouse, completely bewildered.

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