Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
ISABELLE
“Guess it’s just the two of us now, Isabella.”
Jackson’s words replay in my head on repeat as I sit opposite him.
“I can’t believe Aaron and Jen set us up like that!” I exclaim.
Jen, my best friend, betraying me like that, out of all people.
A snicker escapes Jackson. “You know what they both said last time. That they’re on Cupid’s side.”
“Well, I’m on the anti-Cupid side,” I say. “And I propose one of us should leave as well.”
“Nice try.” Jackson reaches for his beer. “Too bad I paid the bill for drinks earlier, so I won’t be leaving.”
“Charming, as always, Jacky. Well, news flash: you don’t get to kick me out, so I’m not leaving either.”
“That’s more than fine by me,” he drawls.
I cross my arms. “Guess I’ll just have to tolerate your company then.”
Jackson leans forward, his gaze meeting mine in a challenge. “And I’ll happily entertain yours.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
There’s a pause before we break eye contact and whip out our phones at the same time. Maybe I’ll sit here with him, but I have no intention of actually making proper conversation with him.
I open my business Instagram account, replying to a few comments on my latest marketing post.
A new email notification from Ivy pops up on my screen.
My heart skips a beat as I read the subject line—Save the Date.
I know I shouldn’t give any more of my time or energy to Ivy.
But there’s a small part of me that’s clinging to the hope that maybe her reaction earlier was only an in-the-moment thing and she’s since reflected on her behavior and changed her mind about having her engagement party on the same day as my fashion show.
Holding my breath, I open the email and scroll down to the time and date section. When I see her event is the same date as my fashion show, a sinking feeling unfolds in my chest.
Of course. Who am I kidding?
A long time ago, Ivy and I were close. We loved singing and reading together and raiding Mom’s closet as kids, even if it meant getting in trouble after. She helped me with my homework and taught me how to put on makeup, and I always went to her for big-sister advice, looked up to her.
One time, in fourth grade, a boy made fun of me for drawing while eating lunch, to the point that I burst into tears.
I confided in Ivy, and the next day, she told him off so much that he looked like he was going to pee his pants.
When I thanked her, she said she’d never let anyone hurt me and assured me that she’d always be my protective older sister.
Now, that all seems like a faraway, faint memory or a figment of my imagination.
I honestly don’t know what I did to make her so resentful toward me, but I know our relationship shifted during high school when she grew distant toward me. It never made sense because she was always the model student and daughter while I was just me. Clumsy, chaotic Isabelle.
One thing’s for sure: she won’t be getting an RSVP from me. Not that she probably cares anyway.
A burning sensation forms in my eyes, but I refuse to give in and let even the smallest tear trickle down my face. There’s no way I’m going to cry here—and especially not in front of Jackson.
I put my phone away and glance down at my sandals, getting ready to put on my best I’m okay face and pretend everything’s fine.
Because it is. It has to be. At the end of the day, life goes on, drama or not, and this is my life.
“Isabelle?”
I freeze, feeling like the world has come to a halt.
Wait a minute. Did I just hear that correctly?
“Isabelle,” Jackson says again, confirming I wasn’t imagining things. My name—my proper name—rolls smoothly off his tongue, like honey.
“Wow,” I say, still basking in shock and avoiding eye contact with him. “You finally got my name right.”
“Isabelle, what’s wrong?” Jackson’s voice is calming and demanding at the same time. It’s almost contradictory, yet ironically, contradictory seems to be the perfect word to describe my current relationship with him.
Because, on one hand, I constantly rant about how he’s this irritating presence in my life, how I want nothing to do with him. Yet, on the other hand, here I am, voluntarily conversing with him when I can be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Slowly, I bring myself to face him, glancing up to see drops of concern in his brown eyes. It’s like I’m seeing a new person. A version of Jackson Carter I didn’t know could exist. Or at least could exist when it comes to the two of us interacting.
This isn’t the usual obnoxious Jackson or the Jackson I’ve always known and remembered from high school. It’s not even the Jackson who helped me with tidying things that day at the market when Daisy collapsed and fell.
“Nothing.” My voice is quiet. “Everything’s great.”
Our server from earlier brings me my drink. Perfect timing. I thank her and take a few large gulps, relishing the sweet taste and rich, tropical flavors of pineapple and coconut. “Actually, I’m doing amazing.”
Jackson’s eyes narrow. “You’re a great debater, but a terrible actor.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say. “Only you could compliment someone and insult them at the same time.”
Despite my sarcasm, the softness in his expression doesn’t fade. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I play with the straw in my drink and sigh. Even though it’s surprisingly nice of him to offer, what happened with Ivy isn’t something I’m eager to discuss with him. “Not really. No.”
Jackson goes silent for a moment, and then his face lights up. “Okay. Do you want to hear a joke then?”
Shock flashes through my spine like an electric bolt. Not only did Jackson touch my hair earlier and get my name right, but now he also wants to tell me a joke instead of saying that I’m the joke?
Maybe today’s a good day to buy a lottery ticket because miracles sure are happening all around.
“You mean, your life?” I say, not sure where this is going to go.
“You mean, my life after I met you?”
I snort. “I could say the same about my life.”
Jackson rolls up his sleeves, his face growing solemn. “All right, listen up. What do you call a jacket that catches on fire?”
“I’ve heard this one before,” I say. “A blazer. Very original, Carter.”
“I have another one.” Jackson leans forward. “Two fashion designers were in a competition to see who could make a suit the fastest. Guess what happened.”
I stare at him in disbelief. What’s with all the fashion-designer-themed jokes and puns?
He takes my silence as a cue to continue. “The race ended in a tie.”
I take another sip of my drink. “Okay, that one wasn’t too bad.”
“Tough crowd.” His lips press into a tight line. “Looks like I’ll have to bring out my favorite.” He pauses for suspense before asking, “Which famous singer-songwriter is also talented at making clothes? I bet you won’t get this one.”
That sparks my curiosity and competitive spirit. I think long and hard about it, but no one springs to mind. “Who?”
“Tailor Swift.” Anticipation blossoms on his face as he awaits my reaction. “Tailor, as in the job.”
A laugh escapes my throat and then another. “I should’ve gotten that one.”
Jackson chuckles. “I’d tell you another joke, but I’m running out of material. I might need to visit the fabric store for some more.”
Maybe it’s because of Jackson’s jokes, or maybe it’s because of the alcohol—or a mix of both—but I can feel myself relaxing, loosening up.
Talking to Jackson is helping me to forget about the drama with Ivy, and if I dare to admit it, I’m more than merely tolerating his company. I might actually be … enjoying it.
I drink my pina colada again. “You know, I’ll admit, you’ve got some great dad jokes there.”
“Hang on a sec. Isabelle Curtis-Wong is giving me a compliment? Today must be a good day to buy a lottery ticket.”
I can’t believe he’s also joking about buying lottery tickets now. Normally, I’d say something witty, but that’s nowhere on my mind because my attention’s on something else.
Dimples.
Jackson Carter has dimples.
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—”
His phone starts ringing.
I don’t hate you.
A muscle jumps in Jackson’s jaw, as if he’s annoyed by the interruption, but he checks his phone and lets out a resigned sigh. “Sorry. I have to take this.”
I give him a reassuring nod. “No problem.”
He stands and walks off, and for some reason, tension builds in my neck when I notice the girls from two tables away checking him out again, then giggling among themselves.
Ugh. Mind your own business, people.
I’m also surprised Jackson hasn’t dated since being back in New York, and I’m starting to think maybe I’ve only been making assumptions about him—assumptions that haven’t been entirely accurate.
Jackson returns to our table a few minutes later, an apologetic look threading his face. “I have to make another call for work. Some emergency, apparently.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I should head off anyway. I have to be up early for work tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah.” He hesitates for a moment. “Hey, think about my offer.”
“I will,” I say, meaning it.
He nods and wishes me a good night. I stand, trying to ignore the web of strange feelings entangling me because suddenly, the idea of Jackson being my fake boyfriend doesn’t sound so bad anymore.
It’s odd. Sure, we had a nice chat just then, but that shouldn’t mean I’m now feeling ready to show up to the reunion holding hands with him, so why does the imagery of that appear almost … appealing?
Is it perhaps the alcohol that’s distorting my perception of things?
Dodging a group of drunk college students, I head for the elevator, finding Jen and Aaron standing nearby. Aaron’s showing Jen something on his phone, and when his hand accidentally brushes against hers, her cheeks go pink. They glance up at the sound of my footsteps.
“Oh, hey!” Aaron grins. “How did your date—ouch!” He frowns when Jen nudges him in the ribs. “I mean, how did your chat with Jackson go?”
“It was fine.” I study them both suspiciously. “Did he know I was coming tonight?”
“Nope,” Aaron proudly says. “As unofficial partners in crime, I thought, and Jen agreed, that it could be a nice surprise for both of you.”
Jen gives me a sheepish smile.
I never thought I’d ever describe seeing Jackson as a nice surprise, but it did turn out to be one.
Still, that’s not something I’m ready to admit to Aaron and Jen. Facing Jen, I say instead, “I’m going to head home now if you want to head back, too?”
Jen fiddles with her fingers. “You go first, Belle. I think I might stay a little longer.”
I nod in understanding, appreciating that she probably wants to chat more with Aaron, before turning to him. “Make sure Jen gets home safe.”
Aaron gives me a salute and grins. “Absolutely.”