Page 61 of A Perfect Fit

This time, surprise highlights her voice when she asks, “The same Jackson Carter you went to school with?”

“That’s right.”

Mom saw Jackson in action during our speech and debate tournaments a few times, but I’m surprised she still remembers him.

“All right,” she says after a beat. “Good to know. We should have lunch or dinner together sometime. It’d be great for your dad and me to get to know him.”

Beads of sweat form on my neck, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I definitely should’ve seen this coming.

“Isabelle? Are you listening?”

“Uh, yeah, that sounds good,” I say, trying my best not to sound apprehensive. “The only thing is … Jackson’s really busy.”

“What kind of boyfriend is too busy to meet his girlfriend’s family?”

“He’s also really shy,” I lie.

Mom clicks her tongue. “Are you sure you’re not hiding anything?”

“Me, hiding something?” I fake a laugh. “I’m the most transparent person ever. I’m an open book.”

More like an open book with pages that are slowly falling apart.

“So, what’s with all the excuses?” Mom’s speaking Cantonese now—a sign she’s truly annoyed.

Knowing my mother, I’m sure there’s no getting out of this.

“Okay,” I reluctantly say, replying in English. “I’ll talk to him about it.”

“Great. That’s settled. I have to go now, but we can pencil in a time later.”

With that, she hangs up.

I rub my temples, contemplating packing my things and moving to the other side of the country or even across the world. I might as well add getting into ugly situations to my résumé at this point. Not to mention, this is outside the scope of my deal with Jackson.

Reluctantly treading out of bed, I head to the kitchen, planning to make myself a cup of coffee. I’ll figure out a game plan for my sticky situation later.

On the way to the kitchen, I bypass the living room and stop in my tracks when I notice something seems different. Very different.

The piles of fabric that were previously lying around everywhere are now color-coordinated and arranged in a few neat stacks beside my shelf.

Footsteps resound, followed by Jen’s voice. “Morning.”

“Morning,” I say. “Did you tidy up the living room last night?”

“Nope,” she replies. “I went to get dessert with Aaron, and I got home later than you did.” Her eyes sparkle. “I think I have an idea of who did, though.”

My heart skips a beat as blurry images from last night flash in my head.

Jackson.

Jen gestures to my work table. “He left you a note, too.”

I head over and pick up the note, reading the beautiful, cursive handwriting.

Bella,

I ordered a new shelf for your fabric, which should arrive at your apartment early next week. It’s about the same size as the shelf you currently have, but let me know if that doesn’t work.