Page 5 of A Perfect Fit

That is, until I step into the arrival gate area, and he suddenly appears to my right, his eyes meeting mine.

“Quit following me, Isabella.”

My scowl is immediate. If I had a dollar for every time Jackson irked me, I’d be a billionaire by now.

“In case you haven’t realized, there’s only one pathway to baggage claim.” A rush of competitiveness bursts through my body. “And I’m going to make it there before you.”

A wicked grin curls his annoyingly attractive, full lips. “Game on.”

Jackson turns and strides ahead of me, one step of his nearly equivalent to three of mine. Picking up my pace, I wheel my carry-on suitcase and catch up to him, ignoring the perplexed looks of others around us as they witness my and Jackson’s little game. Jackson turns to me, his brows shooting up in surprise. I give him a goading smile‌ in return.

We reach the customs area, queuing up in different lines. Unfortunately, the line I chose is as slow as New York traffic, and by the time I go through my turn and arrive at the baggage carousel area, Jackson is nowhere in sight.

A frown etches my face. Surely, he can’t be out of the airport already.

As if on cue, Jackson reappears to my left, and we both tilt our heads, glaring at each other. It’s the final leg of the race, and we’re waiting for our luggage to show up, hoping it’ll come out before the other person’s. Since I was the last person to check in at the airport, I think I have the upper hand.

My jaw drops when Jackson steps closer to the baggage carousel and grabs two black suitcases off the conveyor belt, his arm muscles flexing. He turns to me with a smug smile—it’s his signature victory look, the one he gave me each time he beat me at something back in school.

“Better luck next time. Hope your luggage comes out before midnight, Cinderella.” Jackson’s brown eyes scan my five-layered outfit again. “For the future, maybe consider packing lighter.”

Cinderella? My nostrils flare at the nickname.

“I’d call you Prince Charming, but that would be a huge insult to all the real gentlemen out there.”

Jackson’s lips morph into a cocky smirk. “Never said I was a gentleman.”

I’m almost tempted to give him a pat on the back. “Great job on finally developing some self-awareness!”

“Thank you.” Jackson strides off with his luggage, leaving me to stare at his retreating figure.

How does he even look so polished after an eight-hour flight? Most people—most normal people—would look tired, but Jackson practically looks red-carpet ready. Again, unfair.

My luggage finally arrives, and I force myself to wipe all thoughts of Jackson from my mind.

I’m convinced he’s from another planet.

“You were sitting next to Jackson Carter?!”

Jennifer (Jen) Riley, my best friend and roommate, stares at me wide-eyed from the pink yoga mat she’s sitting on. She was in the middle of doing a yoga pose when I burst into her room and started talking about what had happened on my flight.

Jen and I befriended each other during the first week of freshman year at Summerhurst High, bonding over our shared love of reading and rom-coms. In our senior year, when I realized I didn’t want to follow my family’s footsteps and pursue a career in law, she encouraged me to apply for fashion school and chase after my fashion designer dreams.

“Yep,” I say. “And … and he’s moving … back to New York.”

I’m still feeling out of breath from dragging my luggage up four sets of stairs to our Brooklyn apartment—a sign I should probably add more cardio to my exercise routine. Our 1960s building doesn’t have stairs, a trade-off we were happy to make when we managed to snag a rent-stabilized apartment.

“Damn.” Jen’s brows furrow, her blue eyes in deep concentration. It’s her classic thinking face. “How does he look now? Is he cute?”

“This is Jackson Carter we’re talking about, Jen,” I groan. “If his personality is like poop, it doesn’t matter if he could be a Hollywood actor.”

Jen grins. “So, you do think he’s good-looking.”

“Maybe,” I say, trying my best to feign indifference.

She stands and walks over to me, smoothing her straight blonde hair. “You know, my theory is, he secretly liked you. That’s why he kept trying to get your attention.”

I strongly disagree. “There’s a difference between teasing someone and being flat-out obnoxious. He’s just always had it in for me since the paint incident.”