Page 73 of Fixer for the Billionaire

Freddie laughs, and I join in, feeling lighter.

"There you go," she says, grinning. "A laugh is always a good sign. Now let's finish this wine and come up with a plan for telling Jenny."

The noise of the restaurant fades as I lean in, keeping my voice low. "So... how exactly should I tell her?" I ask, taking another sip of wine. I pause. "In case you hadn't noticed, this is me admitting I need help and blatantly asking for it."

Freddie claps. "Finally! The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem." She eyes me thoughtfully. "As for how to tell Jenny... honestly, I think the direct approach might be best. Just sit her down and explain... that Quentin's cock was too perfect to pass up."

"Freddie..."

"Fine." She waves the waiter over. "I've got another idea that might work. But first, we'll need a pen, another bottle of Cabernet, and a pair of lady-balls big enough to put it all on the line."

I exhale loudly. "Okay, lady-balls and Cabernet it is..."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

QUENTIN

The high of San Francisco feels like a relic of another era, even if it was just days ago. There's something about Seattle's spring air—sharp and invigorating—that slaps you back to reality. And reality, at this moment, is me trying to figure out how to act around Carmina.

We went from stealing breaths between whispers to a professional cold front that would make Seattle's winter jealous.

It's been thirty-six hours since I laid my heart out, and all I've gotten back is radio silence.

I know I mentally agreed to this after the last day in San Fran. Agreed to put my focus back on the wedding. Agreed to being the Best Man I can be.

For Ry.

I agreed to pretending like I didn't just spend the last few days naked and under hotel sheets with the woman of my dreams. Pretending she didn't rip my heart out and stomp on it with her silence.

But damn, it's hard.

Especially when my entire body is still buzzing from her touch. When every time I close my eyes, all I can see is her face, flushed and smiling as she whispered my name.

Every time I catch a glimpse of her, my heart races, and it’s impossible not to remember how she felt in my arms. How her lips tasted like honey and her body molded perfectly against mine.

It's a special kind of torture, really.

By the time Friday evening comes—the night of Jen and Ry's joint bachelor-bachelorette party on a yacht sailing the Puget Sound—keeping up this act of indifference is becoming exhausting.

As I approach the gleaming white yacht, I take in the sight of the Seattle skyline with its iconic Space Needle, bathed in the setting sun's pink and orange hues.

The smell of saltwater and seafood fills the air, along with the sounds of laughter and music.

Twinkling lights and lanterns adorn the deck of the yacht, creating a warm glow that invites us inside. I smile as I spot Jen and Ry, surrounded by our brothers and friends, looking happier than ever.

It's a perfect evening for a celebration.

And still, my mood remains somber.

Trying to shake off the funk, I board my twin's Puget Sound boat party, dressed in a suit that feels too tight, with a cousin at my side who can't seem to stop making jabs about our collective lack of dates.

If only that were the truth.

I have someone I want to be my date for the night. Who I want to be mine.

I know she's here too, somewhere in the crowd. Looking stunning in whatever curve-hugging dress she chose for the evening. I could spot her from a mile away, even with the sea of people on this yacht.

But instead of searching the crowd for her familiar face, I head straight to the bar and order myself a drink. Or three.

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