Page 23 of A Perfect Fit

Not that I care about her love life, of course. Although good luck to anyone who wants to date her and even more so to her future husband.

Frustratingly, my recent encounters with Isabelle have appeared in my mind at the most random times. At the gym a few days ago. In the elevator to work this morning. Even while I was making an omelet for breakfast yesterday.

Since I returned to New York, she’s been like a song stuck in my head on repeat.

“Hello?” Aaron impatiently waves a fry in my face.

“I’m listening.”

Aaron shoves the fry in his mouth. “Anyway, it’ll be fun. Good food and good company. What more could you want?”

“I’ll think about it,” I reply, knowing he probably won’t give up otherwise. “Can we get back to work now? We need to finalize the presentation for Greenstar before the meeting tomorrow.”

Aaron sighs. “Honestly, I don’t know what else there is to do. We’ve looked at it, like, five times already.”

“Well, it’s an important meeting, and I want our pitch to be the best,” I say, opening the slide deck on my computer screen.

As I wait for the file to load, I glance at Anna’s card again. I remember Isabelle’s passion for drawing back in school, so finding out she’s running her own fashion business wasn’t too surprising.

“Helloooo?” Aaron whines. “I thought you wanted to discuss the Greenstar presentation?”

I sigh, shifting my attention back to my computer.

I need to stop thinking about my old high school rival.

Chapter Eight

JACKSON

When I was younger, I disliked coffee and never understood the hype about it—caffeine always made me tired and lethargic. I went through the whole of high school without it, but something changed after I started college, and I finally caved in.

Now, I can’t function properly without having at least one cup of coffee every day.

Today, however, as I step inside The Daily Brew, I’m not here for the coffee.

I’m here to see someone.

My grip on the envelope I’m holding tightens as I join the line of customers. I’ve held off giving Anna’s card to Isabelle to avoid seeing her again so soon, but it’s time to get it over and done with.

I wait for my turn before facing the barista behind the counter. “Good morning. Is Isabella—I mean, Isabelle here?”

The barista, whose name badge reads Cherie, shakes her head. “Isabelle doesn’t work here on Saturdays.”

I scratch my head. Of course. Isabelle must be at the market today.

“Can I pass on a message?” she asks.

Just ask her to give the envelope to Isabelle.

I clear my throat. “It’s all good, thank you.”

She nods, and I turn around, heading for the exit.

Coward. So much for just asking her to pass on the card.

“Jackson?” a high-pitched female voice calls out.

Turning back around, I come face-to-face with a blonde woman, wearing a lime-green athleisure set. She lifts her Prada sunglasses so that they’re sitting on top of her head and flashes a bright smile. “It is you!”