Page 1 of A Perfect Fit

Chapter One

ISABELLE

There are many things in life that can be frustrating—slow internet, waiting for a video to buffer, battling through heavy rain with an umbrella that keeps flipping inside out, someone purposely spoiling the ending of a book or movie, making a dash for the subway or elevator, only to see the doors close right in front of you, and so on and so forth.

Then there’s the realization that your seat neighbor on an eight-hour flight back home is none other than your high school rival and nemesis, whom you haven’t seen in eight years.

It’s the perfect way—sarcasm intended—to end my solo vacation to London, my first international trip in years.

This could’ve been the start of my real-life rom-com story. I could’ve been seated next to a cute stranger. We’d make small talk and maybe rant a little about our respective lives. Then there’d be turbulence on the plane, and I’d end up reaching for his hand. At some point, I might have accidentally fallen asleep on his shoulder. When the flight was over, we’d part ways but somehow still end up bumping into each other again.

But of course, the universe has other plans.

Right now, I’m sliding into my seat, my gaze flicking to the man in the adjacent seat, who’s engrossed in the book he’s reading. Unfortunately, just a glimpse of his profile alone is quite jaw-dropping.

Honey-brown eyes, dark-brown hair, and a chiseled jaw that could cut glass. A face that’s handsome with a capital H, a face that will leave you gawking, and a face that could easily grace the cover of any fashion magazine.

But don’t you dare let Jackson Carter’s looks deceive you.

You’d think that karma would do its magic, but, nope, there he is, in all his glory, wearing a navy-blue suit that fits impeccably against his broad chest and shoulders—a stark contrast to the five layers of clothing I messily threw on.

Of course, he’s one of those people who would wear a suit on an eight-hour flight.

Why am I wearing five layers, you may ask? Well, when I checked in at London Heathrow Airport, it turned out my luggage was overweight, and I refused to pay the extra fee or throw anything out. It’s not my chicest look, but as a fashion designer, I’m a firm believer that fashion is a form of self-expression, and right now, my outfit is a representation of the mess I’ve found myself in.

Jackson puts down his book, his gaze meeting mine and recognition flaring on his face. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged me since I arrived on our flight. He gives my five-layered outfit a scan, his lips pressing into a thin line of disapproval then morphing into a smirk.

Forget about hi, hello, or how are you; we’re picking up right from when we last saw each other eight years ago. I already know some taunting thought about me is running through his small-minded head.

All those years, and that condescending attitude‌ of his has not changed one bit.

My teeth grind, and I blame my pride for deciding to start a conversation with him next. “What?”

“Nothing.” Jackson leans back in his seat, picking up his book again. His voice is deeper than I recall—another reminder that he’s no longer the annoying teenage boy I knew from high school. “Just not surprised it was you who was holding the entire plane up, Isabella.”

More annoying memories of Jackson Carter come flooding back, like an old box buried away at the back of my head being reopened.

Exhibit A: him deliberately calling me Isabella instead of Isabelle.

“It’s Isabelle, not Isabella,” I corrected him more times than I could count.

“All right then, Isabella,” he replied each time.

Jackass.

That’s not all.

I didn’t think I was a competitive person until I met Jackson during freshman year of high school at Summerhurst High. I didn’t think I’d ever wanted to win anything that badly until I met the Devil reincarnated himself. But he always seemed to bring out the worst in me.

Ever since the paint incident, Jackson would come at me, making everything a competition, whether it was speech and debate, math, English or even gym class. And he beat me nearly every single damn time. School was already stressful enough with pressure from my strict mother and overachieving older sister—I didn’t need to also worry about competing against Jackson.

Anyway, unfortunately for me, due to thinking I’d lost my passport and underestimating my travel time to the airport, I was last to board the plane. After that, I did the walk of shame as I waddled through the plane aisle in embarrassment, feeling several sets of judgmental eyes on me.

Fortunately though, I recall Jackson despised being called Jacky, and I fully intend to capitalize on that.

“Very charming, Jacky,” I say. “I’ve got to say, though, I’m surprised the one and only Jackson Carter is flying economy class. What happened? Got fired from your job?”

“Your concern for my welfare’s flattering,” he deadpans. “But to satisfy your evident curiosity about my life, no.”