Chapter 2
Chapter Two
ISABELLE
“Wake up.”
My body sleepy and my mind in a dreamlike state, I slowly blink open my eyes, catching a whiff of coffee and hand sanitizer. In the background, there’s the steady hum of an engine echoing in the plane.
I’m wearing my eye mask, and my head is resting against something—or rather, someone—comfortable. Beside me, there’s a man with a deep, familiar voice who’s talking to—
“Wake up.” The man’s voice is clipped. “You’ve been sleeping on my shoulder for the past three hours.”
My body jerks upright faster than a lightning strike when I realize it’s Jackson who’s talking to me and that I was indeed sleeping on his shoulder.
I take off my eye mask and shoot him a scowl. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I did, but it’s not my fault you were sleeping like a pig. It was impossible to talk to you.” Jackson’s laptop screen is bright, and I catch a glimpse of some marketing brief he’s reading. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was working the whole time I was asleep.
“I don’t snore,” I grumble, opening the flight map in front of me.
One hour and eleven minutes. That’s the time remaining until we land in New York. It’s funny I’m seeing angel numbers, considering I might as well be sitting next to the Devil.
“Didn’t say you were.”
I continue staring at the flight map as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
“Sleep well, bedhead?” Jackson asks.
“Very. I had a dream you were tossed into a pool of electric eels.”
That’s a lie.
Jackson types something on his laptop. “It must be because you always have such a macabre imagination.”
I plaster on a fake, sugary-sweet smile. “Only when it comes to you.”
Jackson rests his chin in his hands and tilts his head to face me. “So, let me get this straight. First, you have a punching bag with my face on it, and now you’re having dreams about me, too. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were secretly obsessed with me.”
My teeth clench, and I feel my body temperature rise. God, how big is this guy’s ego?
“Aw, what a cute little hypothesis,” I say. “Though the probability of that happening is about as nonexistent as your love life.”
“Does my love life intrigue you?”
“I’d rather watch paint dry than hear about it.”
Jackson snorts. “How original.”
“Why are you moving back to New York?” I ask, leaning back against my seat.
I’ll admit, I’ve been curious throughout the flight, but I’ve resisted the temptation to ask him until now.
Jackson hesitates. “For business. Why were you in London?”
“For pleasure. Some of us actually like to relax and go on vacation every now and then. You should try it sometime.”
“I have my own ways of relaxing,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Like what?” I snicker. “Memorizing every word in Merriam-Webster?”
“And the Oxford Dictionary, too.”
My lips twitch. “Overachiever.”
Jackson smirks and returns his attention to his laptop screen. “Always.”
I don’t bother with a reply.
Surprisingly, the remainder of the flight passes by with no more talking or bickering between us. Maybe this is the part where the initial reaction of seeing your high school rival wears off and you decide it’s time to move on and act like a mature adult.
We land at JFK at eleven twenty a.m., New York time, the sounds of unclipping seat belts, distinct chatter, and opening of overhead compartments around me a stark reminder that it’s back to reality.
I stand and head for the aisle, grabbing my carry-on luggage. When Jackson does the same, I sneak a glance at him, realizing he’s at least six feet tall. He was already tall when I knew him at school, but he must’ve had another growth spurt when he moved overseas.
Why is puberty kind to the most obnoxious people? It’s unfair.
As we wait to exit the plane, a middle-aged woman, who was sitting behind us, makes small talk with Jackson in a posh British accent. I ignore the conversation, scrolling through my London vacation photos on my phone.
Finally, the line of passengers starts moving, and I lose sight of Jackson—which I have no complaints about—when we part ways.
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.”
The paint incident was the catalyst for Jackson’s jackass and competitive attitude toward me.
Flashback to one morning during our first week at Summerhurst High.
I arrived early to school and was sitting at the top of the stairs in the courtyard, doing some painting before first period.
All was peaceful until I accidentally spilled one of my paint jars, causing droplets of white paint to fall through the spaces of the stairway railings and plummet downward.
Guess who happened to walk past at the same time.
That’s right—Jackson. And his best friend, Aaron Lancaster. Except the drops of paint fell on top of Jackson’s head only.
Not the best way to make an impression on a new classmate, and it didn’t help that I immediately burst out laughing when I heard Jackson utter, “Did a bird just shit on me?” to Aaron.
Even though I apologized to Jackson and explained it was an accident after he glanced up and saw me, he didn’t believe me. To this day, he probably still thinks I spilled the paint on him on purpose.
Jackass. Smart-ass. Grudge-holder ass.
Jen’s brows draw together. “Or maybe he was like that because of …”
I sigh. “You can say his name.”
“Oliver,” she murmurs.
“Anyway, Jackson might be a jackass, but he’s not dumb,” I say.
“He just does it on purpose. Remember when Mr. Burns assigned me and Jackson to be lab partners? Jackson told him he refused to work with me because I’d probably end up dropping and spilling everything.
He said that in front of me and the whole class. I was mortified.”
Of course, since Mr. Burns—along with every other teacher at Summerhurst High—loved Jackson, his request was fulfilled.
“Yeah, that was an asshole move,” Jen agrees.
“And remember how he always said, ‘Make sure you don’t drop that,’ whenever I walked past him, holding something? And how he gloated in my face every time—”
My eyes widen at the realization that I’ve been ranting about Jackson nonstop. “Oh my gosh, Jen, am I turning into a bitter, grudge-holder ass, too?”
Another grin touches her lips. “Considering you’ve spent the last five minutes telling me about him instead of all about London, yes. But it’s fine. You’re allowed to remember how he made you feel.”
“The only thing he makes me feel is annoyance,” I say, waving a hand. “I swear, I’m done thinking or talking about him, and I’m never going to—”
“Okay, okay, go take a shower first,” Jen says, playfully pushing me out the door. “And then we can chat over lunch. I made rice paper rolls.”
A dreamy sigh escapes me. “Sounds delicious.”
I head to the bathroom for my shower, and then Jen and I have lunch together at the small dining table by the window. I rave to her about my London trip, and she updates me on her week and work as a nurse at our local hospital.
Once lunch is over and we clean up, I head for my bedroom, reaching for my sketchbook. It’s only been a week, but I’ve missed it. Missed doodling in it, sketching all the design ideas that like to live rent-free in my head.
Sometimes, I feel like it’s just me, my sketchbook, and my sewing machine against the world.
Time away from home and visiting London’s fashion and textile museums sparked inspiration, and I’m buzzing to see if I can turn that into something more. Plus, I fully intend to make the most of my last day of freedom before I go back to work at The Daily Brew tomorrow.
Turning to a fresh page, I grab a pencil and sit at my desk. I’ll unpack later.
For now … all I want to do is draw.