Page 68 of Fixer for the Billionaire

But then, maybe that was my mistake all along: assuming she wanted the same things I did.

I turn to leave, but I hear her footsteps. Then feel her hand on my arm. "Quentin, wait."

I stop but don’t turn around.

"Just...please..." she begins.

"Please what?"

"Don’t...mention us to Jenny or Ry." I hear her shift behind me. "Their bachelor-bachelorette party’s this weekend. I don’t want to ruin it for them."

This time, I turn to face her, feeling the weight of my next words heavy on my chest. "There’s no 'us' to talk about, Carmina. You made that perfectly clear. Give Val a hug for me as soon as she’s awake."

Without another word, I walk out of the room and down the hall.

As soon as I’m outside, my pace quickens until I’m practically running. Running away from the mess I’ve made. Running back to a place where I can forget about Carmina Sanchez. Forget about love and relationships and all the complications that come with them.

The San Francisco streets are alive with people and cars, but I barely register them as I turn corner after corner, my hand in the air trying to flag down a cab.

Finally, one stops and I climb in without a second thought.

I don’t feel the wetness behind my eyelids—actual unshed tears, hot and stinging—until the car is pulling away from the curb.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

CARMINA

I try to convince myself that everything’s back to normal, bustling around with the arrangements for Jen's bachelor-bachelorette bash as if my own heart isn’t bouncing like a ping-pong ball.

Two days after Val's allergy attack, my scientist sister's doing better, thankfully, spouting more potato clock and rocket fuel facts than I knew existed, thanks to Quentin’s parting gift of a bag of spuds to her hotel room.

In the meantime, Jen's wrapped in wedding planning and her soon-to-be husband, while recent tag-team Gabi and Freddie keep throwing concerned glances my way. I shrug it off, insisting it’s just residual stress from Jen's health scare.

It's a lie. Much like the ones I've been telling Gabi about Quentin being “just a friend.”

Back at Hare & Holeton, I’ve been playing hide and seek with my own Chief Marketing Officer, ducking behind doors and taking the long route to the printer. It’s been thirty-six hours of this self-imposed exile from him.

Thirty-six hours of pretending his absence doesn’t twist my gut into knots.

Nearly two days ago, walking away was the only answer to the question of Quentin and me. It was smart. Prudent. Sensible.

If only avoiding him didn't feel like denying oxygen to my lungs.

Scheduled to meet with party planners Puddle and Glitter this afternoon, I'm still struggling to breathe the day before the bachelor-bachelorette party.

On this rainy Seattle lunch hour, the weather is as dour as my mood as I drive the short distance to their office. As I pull into the parking lot, my phone buzzes with a text from Gabi. The messages come in rapid succession, each one causing my heart to beat a little faster.

MINA. I appreciate U making us lunch…. but we GOTTA find a way to get Quentin back in the kitchen.

I ?? U. But a lettuce, tomato + mustard sandwich???

Shit. I messed up.

Then another message pops up from Gabi, this time with a photo attached. It’s the sandwich I packed for her lunch. A sandwich inconveniently missing the turkey and cheese I meant to add, nestled inside the Tupperware container.

BTW, if U talk to Quentin, tell him to feel better! And that we miss his cooking. Srsly ??

I smile, despite the ache in my chest. The lie that Quentin was sick to cover up our fight seems more and more absurd, especially now that we're back in Seattle.

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