Page 122 of A Perfect Fit

ISABELLE

Iwake up the next morning feeling tired and sore, though in a good way. Jackson isn’t in bed with me, and I’m missing the warmth of his body against mine, but the brief sounds of running water coming from the kitchen tell me he’s probably making breakfast.

Rays of sunlight shine inside Jackson’s bedroom, and outside, the city’s bustling with noise and traffic. I’m guessing I overslept.

I cast my mind to our date yesterday and what happened last night, a jittery feeling in my stomach. We stayed up past midnight, and let’s just say, Jackson wasn’t lying when he alluded to having great stamina.

The way he was so attentive with me, the way he checked I was comfortable and safe, the way he knew exactly what to do … it was so amazing.

I stretch my arms and survey Jackson’s room, which I didn’t get a chance to look at properly last night. His room has a monochrome color scheme, aside from shades of navy here and there. A flat screen TV hangs on the wall in front of his king-size bed, and a sleek desk and black armchair grace the corner of his room.

Treading out of bed, I put on my underwear and a random white T-shirt I dig out from Jackson’s closet. It’s oversize on me, and it might as well be a dress.

When I head to the kitchen, Jackson’s standing at the counter in boxers, his back muscles prominent as he moves and his gorgeous hair still tousled—from me running my hands through it countless times last night. There’s a waffle maker plugged in on the counter, steam coming out from it.

I love getting to see this domestic side of him.

Jackson turns around at the sound of my footsteps, his throat bobbing as he gives me a once-over. “Fuck.”

I also love that seeing me in his clothes has that effect on him.

“I’m stealing your shirt,” I say.

“You can have all my shirts.”

“All your shirts?” I fake a gasp. “That’s a lot of shirts, Jackson.”

“Thought I’d help diversify your wardrobe,” he says. “Eighty percent of what you wear is just florals. What happens if you get bored of florals one day?”

I huff, crossing my arms. “Okay, one, you haven’t even seen my entire closet. Two, the day I get bored of florals is the day I’ll start hating mint ice cream. Which is never.”

Jackson raises a brow. “You like mint ice cream?”

“Yes. Why?”

“It tastes like toothpaste.”

“It does not,” I argue. I’ll forever wave the mint ice cream is misunderstood flag. “It’s fresh and delicious when paired with chocolate chips.” I pat his bicep. “I guess not everyone is capable of appreciating good food.”

He tips his head to the side. “Coming from someone with questionable taste.”

I give him a smug grin. “You can’t say I have questionable taste, because I went on a date with you. So if I have questionable taste, then that also applies to my dating choices, which means going out with you was a bad choice.”

Jackson frowns and scratches his head. “How did this conversation get here?”

A laugh trickles out of my mouth. “No clue. I’m still stealing your shirt, though.”

“Please do.”

Steam stops seeping out of the waffle maker, a green light turning on. Jackson opens the lid, revealing golden-brown waffles, a warm and buttery smell filling the air.

My stomach growls.

Jackson smirks at me. “Hungry?”

“Yes.” I pout. “That smells so good.”

“Have a seat,” he says. “Breakfast will be served shortly.”