Page 53 of A Perfect Fit

The color drains completely from her face, and seeing her hurt and mortified expression only causes the flames in my chest to burn brighter. How could she still have any feelings for that dickhead? She deserves so much better than fucking Oliver Morrison. Can she not see that?

Oliver shifts his gaze to me. “You can have her, Carter. You know what they say—sloppy seconds.”

Oh, fuck no.

My ears are pounding, pure fury rippling through my body, like lava expelled from a volcanic eruption. “What the fuck did you just say?”

He smirks. “You heard me. Sloppy sec⁠—”

My fist connects with his jaw, marking the first time I’ve ever punched anyone or resorted to violence in my life.

Loud gasps resound in the gymnasium, and only then do I realize a crowd has gathered around us, but I don’t care. That shithead should get more than just a single punch.

“Don’t you dare talk like that about my girlfriend ever again.”

Oliver stumbles backward, pressing a hand to the spot where I just hit him.

“And don’t you dare say another word to disrespect her or do anything to hurt her,” I add, still seething. “Don’t even fucking breathe near her.”

Oliver lets out a shrill laugh. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t planning to.”

“Oh my God, Olly? What happened?”

It’s Oliver’s date, frantically rushing over to us.

“Nothing, Veronica.” Oliver places an arm around her. “I was just having a nice catch-up with my friends.”

“You’re drunk,” Veronica sighs. “I’m taking you home.”

“Fuck this,” Oliver grumbles. “Veronica, we’re leaving.”

Veronica gives me and Isabelle an apologetic look. “I apologize for anything rude he might’ve said to you both,” she says.

Isabelle shakes her head. “It’s not your fault.”

Veronica gives her a rueful smile before slinging an arm around Oliver and leading him toward the exit.

“He’s an asshole!” someone randomly yells.

I turn to Isabelle, my expression softening. “Are you okay?”

Isabelle nods slowly, her face still pale. “Yeah.” She glances at my hand. My knuckles are still red from the punch. “Are you okay? That looked like a painful hit.”

“I’m okay,” I say. “You worried about me?”

Isabelle rolls her eyes. “I should’ve known you’d say something like that.”

I’m treating Isabelle being her usual sassy self as a good sign. “I’m going to take that as a yes. Anyway … we can leave now as well. We don’t have to stay any longer.”

Isabelle plasters a smile on her face, but I see right through her and know she’s putting on a facade. “It’s all right. Let’s stay for a little longer. Why let him ruin our night?”

“Okay,” I reluctantly say.

“I’m going to grab another glass of champagne.” She walks off before turning to me again. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to get drunk.”

Isabelle is drunk.

One minute, she was still sober, and the next, she’s ten times more energetic than usual. I tried encouraging her not to overdo it on the alcohol, but she insisted she had great alcohol tolerance.