Page 62 of A Perfect Fit

Jackson

Jackson always had neat handwriting back in high school, and that hasn’t changed.

But as I stand in my apartment, still holding his note, it’s as though something else has changed.

Chapter Seventeen

ISABELLE

On Monday afternoon, I’m standing outside the building that features Carter Marketing Solutions’ office.

The plan wasn’t to come here. I finished my shift at The Daily Brew fifteen minutes ago, and I planned to head straight for the subway station, as I normally do after work.

Somehow, I ended up googling Carter Marketing Solutions’ office address, and my feet brought me here.

As the weekend progressed and my hangover cured, the events of Friday night replayed in my mind like a movie on repeat—at least the parts I could remember. Each memory only added to the embarrassment piling up within me.

Of all people, I just had to get drunk in front of Jackson.

I can’t remember everything I said to him, but I recall the, “You can take off my dress,” remark I made inside his car. I’m pretty sure I also batted my eyelashes at him. He probably thought I was trying to seduce him.

At this rate, the word mortified in the dictionary might as well include a picture of my face next to it.

On a more serious note, Jackson also punched Oliver and threatened him in front of everyone.

That was the first time I had seen him that mad. The flash of anger I witnessed in his eyes looked so incredibly and undeniably real. But again, he also kissed me and told me not to think too much about it afterward, so maybe it was only a part of his fake-boyfriend act.

Yesterday, I drafted an Instagram message to send to Jackson, thanking him for what he did for me on Friday night and gauging whether he might be willing to meet my parents as my fake boyfriend one more time. In the end, I chickened out as I was about to send it.

Now, I’ve been standing here for who knows how long, contemplating on visiting his office, even though, theoretically, that should be more nerve-racking than sending him a simple text.

A woman in her fifties, wearing corporate attire and heels, walks out from the building. There’s a frown on her face when she sees me standing there in my T-shirt and jeans.

Hesitation crawls through my skin. Showing up to Jackson’s workplace without notice isn’t the best idea, especially in my casual attire. I should go home and text him, as I originally intended.

I turn on my heel, preparing to leave.

“Isabelle, is that you?”

It’s Aaron’s voice.

Too late.

I swivel around, facing him. A nervous laugh flows from my mouth. “Hey, Aaron. I was just, uh …”

“Jackson’s office is on the eleventh floor.”

“That’s great to know.” I point a finger toward the direction of the nearest subway station. “But you know what? Maybe I’ll save that for next time⁠—”

“Jackson’s been sad at work all day,” Aaron blurts out.

The thought of Jackson being sad pulls at something in my heart. “He has?”

Aaron nods eagerly. “His, uh, houseplants died.”

“Jackson has houseplants?”

“He did. Before they … died.”