Page 39 of A Perfect Fit

Suddenly, his already infuriatingly handsome face just became even more attractive.

I don’t know why I never noticed his dimples before. Maybe it’s because he was always so grumpy toward me back in high school every time we interacted or talked—aside from his victory look when he beat me at something. Either that or I never paid close attention because I was always occupied with thinking of a new comeback or insult to hurl at him whenever I was around him.

“You okay?” Jackson lifts a brow. “You look surprised.”

“All good,” I quickly say. “I just didn’t realize you have … a funny personality … sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Jackson looks genuinely offended. “I’m always funny, Isabelle.”

A funny tingle makes its way up my spine at the way he says my name again, and I take another gulp of my drink. Get it together, Isabelle. “Guess you learn something new every day.”

“So, what’s something I don’t know about you?” Jackson’s palm grips his beer. “It’s only fair that I learn something new about you, too, so we’re even.”

“Okay, Mr. Fairness,” I say. “I like to read.”

“Romance novels,” he dryly adds. “I think I already knew that.”

This is the second time he’s brought up me reading romance books. Did Jackson really pay attention to what I was reading during high school and remember it, or was it simply obvious to anyone?

“I also read magazines,” I say. “And my favorite magazine is⁠—”

“Sparkes Magazine, the fashion magazine,” he calmly interjects. “Now tell me something I don’t know.”

Okay. So, apparently, he knows about that, too.

“I like strawberry jam doughnuts?” I say, but for some reason it comes out more as a question than a statement.

Jackson’s eyes glimmer with mischief. “What’s that cartoon character with strawberry in her name?”

I groan, raising a palm. “Don’t go there.”

He laughs, and then his expression melts into something softer. “Look, I know you said you don’t want to talk about it, but if it’s to do with the fake-boyfriend thing, my offer from last time stands.”

I give him a dazed look. I was so sure that he was only joking last time. “You’re not going to ask for context as to why I need a fake boyfriend?”

Jackson considers it for a moment and shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I mean, as long as it’s not anything illegal.” He pauses. “Wait. Is it illegal?”

I roll my eyes. “Not illegal.”

Or sexual.

Not that that’s relevant, of course.

“I have a business event coming up, and I need a date,” Jackson says. “We could make a deal—I’ll be your fake boyfriend for whatever it is you’ve got going on, and you can be my date for my event.”

If it wasn’t for the focused and sincere look in his eyes, I would think he was joking.

Several questions circle through my head, but I ask the one that’s pressing me the most. “Why are you asking me?”

I’m certain Jackson wouldn’t have any difficulty with finding a date for whatever event he has. There’s probably a long line of people who’d be his date at the drop of a hat, including the group of girls sitting two tables away, who keep sneaking glances at him as if he were the last piece of cake.

“Because I haven’t dated since being back in New York,” Jackson says. “And because it seems convenient to ask the woman I keep bumping into.” His voice is croaky when he adds, “Even if she hates my guts.”

It’s the alcohol that’s lowering his guard, I notice. But as I sit opposite him, realization wraps around me that I don’t think I hate Jackson. At least, now that we’re adults. I certainly disliked—strongly disliked—him, but hate is a strong word, and it isn’t the right word to describe my feelings toward him.

Something about our recent interactions have left me wanting more, like finishing a book in a series and anticipating the next one to come out.

“Jackson,” I quietly say, “I don’t⁠—”