Page 42 of A Perfect Fit

It’s not to do with needing a date for the Wonderland Marketing Awards either because, as conceited as it sounds, I know I can meet someone at a bar and ask them to be my date.

Seeing Isabelle upset at something she read on her phone last night felt like a needle pricking my chest—another foreign sensation because, as far as I know, the last thing I care about is her feelings.

Yet last night, all I wanted to do was cheer her up and find a solution to whatever dilemma she was facing.

My thoughts occupy me throughout my walk to The Daily Brew, and when I arrive, I join the line of customers behind Isabelle’s counter. Luckily, it’s a fairly short wait until it’s my turn.

“Hey,” I say to Isabelle. “Just my usual.”

“Coming right up.” Isabelle scans my face. “Are you all right? You look like you haven’t slept at all. No offense.”

“Great observation,” I drawl. “That’s because I haven’t slept at all.”

A frown curls on her face. “What the hell were you doing last night?”

“Working,” I say, opting for the truth.

“Do you often pull all-nighters for work?”

I don’t resist the smug smile that tugs on the corner of my lips. I knew coming here would be a good idea. “Worried about my health?”

Isabelle rolls her eyes and enters my order. “I’m only stating the obvious.”

“Whatever you say,” I say, taking out my wallet to pay.

“What were you working on anyway?” she asks.

I opt for the truth. “A marketing proposal for a client.”

“And you left it to the last minute?”

“No. The client wanted me to redo it at the last minute.”

“That sounds awfully demanding.”

I heave a sigh. “I know.”

Isabelle heads to her workstation and starts preparing my coffee. Her ponytail swishes as she moves about, cleaning and drying a portafilter, and something in my chest pulls tight.

Because I can see it. Isabelle in my kitchen. Working my espresso machine, with her long hair tied up in a high ponytail, like it is now. Stealing my favorite mug from me. Teasing me about being caffeine-addicted.

My body freezes at the imagery. What the hell is happening?

Isabelle glances up at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling my Adam’s apple bob.

It’s one thing to worry about her when she was upset last night. It’s another to be actively thinking about her—daydreaming about her—in a domestic setting like my apartment.

And I have a feeling it’s not because of my lack of sleep.

“Anyway, I was just saying that you shouldn’t have to give in like that,” she says, grabbing a bottle of milk and pouring it inside a pitcher.

I exhale at the reminder. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” she asks, genuinely curious.

“Because he’s one of the company’s biggest clients.” The words sound pathetic as they exit my mouth.