Page 116 of A Perfect Fit

“Damn, I look hot,” Jackson says. “I should hang that up in my apartment.”

“Yeah?” I grin. “Does that mean I won the competition?”

He flaunts a smug grin. “I painted more, so I think I win.”

“Hey, quality over quantity!” I protest. “Mine’s better.”

“Debatable.”

“You’re such a jackass.” I can’t help the wide and silly smile that forms on my face as I lean my head against Jackson’s shoulder.

I could sit here with him all day, every day.

Chapter Thirty

ISABELLE

After our little painting competition, Jackson and I spend the afternoon doing some more portraits and enjoying our picnic. Then we head back to our respective homes to get changed into our outfits for dinner—a maroon halter-neck dress, paired with red lipstick and silver heels for me.

When I’m outside my building, Jackson’s waiting by the car, looking dashing in a black suit jacket, white dress shirt, and black slacks.

The moment he spots me, his throat bobs, and his gaze rakes over me, sending a delicious shiver down my spine. “You’re going to be the end of me.”

A laugh drops from my mouth, but internally, a flurry of butterflies flaps around in my stomach. “That’s the plan.”

Jackson cocks a brow. “Are you admitting to plotting my downfall?”

“Yep.” I nod twice. “I’ve been waiting eight years for it.”

“Eight years?” His brows shoot up in surprise. “The jury’s in—you definitely are secretly obsessed with me.”

I swat his arm playfully. “Keep dreaming.”

“I dream about this every day, Isabelle.”

He leans forward to kiss me, but I tilt my head so it’s a kiss on the cheek instead.

“Don’t ruin my lipstick yet,” I say, tossing him a grin when he frowns. “I spent ages trying to achieve a crisp outline.”

“I can’t believe it.” Jackson shakes his head. “Torture. This is absolute torture.”

I laugh as we head inside the car, where Tony’s waiting for us in the driver’s seat.

After a battle with New York traffic, Tony drops us off at an Italian restaurant in the West Village.

“Table for two under the reservation Jackson Carter,” Jackson says to the host standing outside the restaurant.

The host checks his tablet. “This way, please,” he says, leading us inside.

The interior of the restaurant is dimly lit, with framed vintage photos of Italian villages and people scattered on the walls. Each table is covered with a white tablecloth and features a mini cordless lamp in the center. Melodies of soft jazz play in the background, mixing with the sounds of light chatter.

We’re directed to a two-seater near the back. After thanking the host, Jackson pulls out my chair for me.

“Thank you.” I straighten my dress and sit down. “You’re really acting like a gentleman today.”

A sly twinkle glitters in his eyes. “I’m still waiting for you to admit this is the best date of your life.”

“You might still be waiting for a while,” I tease, grabbing the napkin on the table and placing it in my lap.