Page 115 of A Perfect Fit

When Jackson opens the car trunk, there’s a picnic basket, red checkered blanket, and medium-sized box inside.

“What’s inside that box?” I ask.

“It’s a surprise.”

I offer to hold the basket and box, but Jackson insists on taking the heavier items, so I’m left only holding the blanket.

We walk through the park, finding a spot.

Jackson stops when we reach a shady spot under a large tree. “How about here?”

“It’s perfect,” I say, glancing at our surroundings.

Around us are families, couples, and groups of friends also enjoying a picnic. The sun blazes overhead, casting warm rays of golden sunlight, and the sounds of birds chirping echo faintly in the distance.

We sit down on the grass, setting up our little picnic. Inside the picnic basket are sandwiches, strawberries, blueberries, crackers, and cheese, plus a bottle of orange juice.

“All right, the suspense is over.” Jackson opens the box, revealing a few mini blank canvases, paintbrushes, and mini paint pots. “I thought we could have a little painting competition today.” He places one of the canvases in front of me and divides the paintbrushes between us.

My hands itch with the need to pick up a brush. It’s been a long time since I’ve painted, and I miss it so much.

“I’m excited,” I gush. “Is there a theme?”

“We can paint whatever we want,” he says. “But we might need to sit with our backs to each other so we don’t see each other’s artwork.”

“True. I can set up a timer for thirty minutes?”

“Sounds good.” Jackson rubs his hands together. “Time to channel my inner Van Gogh. Get ready to lose, Isabella.”

“Not a chance,” I say. “Get ready to have your mind blown.”

“We’ll see about that.”

I set up a timer on my phone, and we sit back-to-back.

“Okay, three, two, one, go!” I say.

Adrenaline rushing through my body, I reach for a paintbrush and dip it in some paint, beginning my artistic masterpiece—a portrait of Jackson. I bite my lip to prevent myself from laughing as I paint, allowing my brushstrokes to lead me as I capture the outline of his hair and face.

I haven’t felt this carefree in so long, and with all the stress of planning my fashion show and the recent family drama, Jackson’s surprise is a reminder to do things that make my inner child happy.

The timer beeps, and I put down my paintbrush. “Okay, time’s up! I want to see yours first.”

Jackson turns around and shows me his painting of a smiling woman with dark-brown hair and brown eyes. In the background is something that looks like a stack of books and something else that vaguely resembles a sewing machine.

“I present my portrait, Isabelle and Her World,” he says, his eyes shining. “The one and only. A true artistic masterpiece of the twenty-first century.”

“I think we need to redefine what we mean by artistic masterpiece,” I tease.

“Come on. This is top-tier artwork,” Jackson playfully protests. “Even my man Van Gogh would agree if he were here today.”

I laugh. “Sure.”

A competitive glint flashes in Jackson’s eyes. “Don’t get too smug. Show me what you’ve got.”

I clear my throat and show him my painting. Jackson’s face lights up with intrigue.

“This is inspired by a certain someone from high school,” I say. “His name’s Jackson. I guess he’s kinda cool.”