Page 70 of Fixer for the Billionaire

It's as if Puddle flicked a switch in a dark room, and suddenly, the shadows inside don't seem so scary.

The inside of my throat thickens, and I clear it, trying to keep my voice steady. "But what if I mess it all up again? How does one officially join the highway of love without getting lost at the first exit?"

Puddle winks. "First rule of love highway? Don't use an old map. Second, don't be afraid to ask for directions. And third, enjoy the ride. Even if you take a wrong turn or two, it's all part of the journey."

A trickle of something wets the corner of my cheek. Takes several seconds before I realize it's a tear.

I laugh, the sound shaky and uncertain but genuine. "Thanks, Puddle. I needed that. You know, for being party planners, you two give pretty good life advice."

"We're considering adding 'emotional support' to our event planning services," Glitter jokes, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.

I sniffle, wiping away the stray tear. "I think you'd have a lot of clients for that." I pack up the planning folders and my purse. "Thanks again, both of you. I'll keep you updated on the wedding planning chaos."

As I start to leave, Puddle calls after me. "Oh, and don't forget to give us a good review on Yelp!" Glitter giggles.

Walking out, I wave goodbye and take a deep breath of the humid Seattle air. Hopping into my car, I start the engine, the weight on my chest a little lighter than just an hour before.

As I maneuver my BMW through the dense Seattle traffic, the scenes with Quentin play like a broken record in the back of my mind.

His eyes, filled with nothing but honest, raw love, staring right into mine. And what did I do?

I walked away, as if his feelings were just another item on a to-do list that I could simply check off and forget.

Am I really that messed up?

Can't I recognize happiness even when it’s practically slapping me in the face with a giant, neon sign saying, "This is it!"?

And then, as if on cue to my spiraling thoughts, the sound of a loud pop beneath the carriage of my car snaps me out of it.

Fingers tightening on the steering wheel, I pull over to the side of the road, muttering a string of expletives as I realize again what I'm dealing with.

A flat tire.

Another sign that my car is consistent with my love life—breaking down at the most inconvenient times.

Without delay, I shoot a text to Freddie, my trusty...well, everything these days, and she replies almost immediately. In no time, her tiny Toyota pulls up beside my car in the rain, her blonde head sticking out of the driver's side window, blue eyes shining with amusement.

"Need a hand?" she asks with a smirk.

"Yes, please. Can you also arrange different auto insurance for me while you're at it?"

Freddie hops out of her car and walks to her trunk, pulling out a jack and the spare tire.

"I told you to cancel that crappy policy two weeks ago," she scolds, half-joking.

"I've been busy...avoiding my feelings."

She chuckles as we both get to work on changing the tire.

It's a wet, tiring, annoying process that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Seeing Quentin fix not one—but two flat tires in one day because of me—feels like salt in the wound.

But as I stand there, sweating and cursing under my breath, it hits me.

This is what love is all about.

It’s not just butterflies and warm fuzzy feelings. It’s being there for each other during the frustrating moments, lending a hand when needed, and making each other laugh even when things seem hopeless.

Numb, my hands move to loosen the lug nuts as Freddie takes over, her surprisingly strong arms making quick work of it. As we tighten the bolts and put everything back in place, Freddie stands, dusting her hands off.

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