Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
JACKSON
“Jeffrey speaking.” Jeffrey Webster’s curt voice cuts through my phone when he picks up my call.
“Good evening, Mr. Webster,” I say. “This is Jackson Carter calling. Your assistant requested an urgent call back.”
Loud cheering from other patrons at Angela’s Rooftop Bar, who are celebrating a birthday, echoes nearby, and I press my phone closer to my ear.
“Yes, thanks for calling me back. I wanted to discuss the marketing campaign proposal you sent through this morning. I’ve only had a chance to look at it now. I’m afraid it won’t work for us.”
His words hang heavy in the air.
“In what regard?” I ask.
“Well, it doesn’t fit within our budget.”
I run a hand through my hair. “I believe the proposal is within the budget you advised you were happy to work with at our last meeting, Mr. Webster.” I even double-checked the budget with him after the meeting.
“I apologize for any misunderstanding.” There’s no trace of apology in his voice. “I will have my team send through our updated financials shortly, and I’d like to see a revised proposal by nine a.m. tomorrow.”
My heart beats faster. He’s got to be kidding.
An updated report will probably take a good several hours’ worth of work.
His deadline won’t be possible unless I or someone else on the team pulls an all-nighter tonight, which I’d rather not do, and I’m certainly not going to let anyone from my team do it either.
“I’m afraid that timing won’t be possible.” I keep my voice calm and professional. “The earliest I could have something back to you is close of business tomorrow.”
“I need the marketing proposal ahead of a board meeting tomorrow morning, Jackson. This is an urgent request. I’m sure you’ll be able to make it work.”
I don’t miss the sharpness in his tone. Pinching my nose bridge, I let out a controlled exhale.
Jeffrey’s an important client with an unreasonable request, which I could—and should—say no to.
But what if … because I refuse to comply with his demand, we end up losing his account?
I don’t want to disappoint my team or have them worry about the consequences if I mess things up.
I can take one for the team, right? Pull an all-nighter to get it done. Keep the client happy because that’s the right thing to do, right?
“Jackson? Are you still there?”
I gulp down the lump in my throat. “I’ll see what I can do tonight.”
“Excellent.”
As predicted, I end up pulling an all-nighter at home to work on Jeffrey’s campaign proposal. After getting the revised proposal to him at exactly nine a.m., I brush my teeth and shower, sucking it up to go into the office, even though internally, I feel like shit.
When I swing open the glass double doors of Carter Marketing Solutions, I run into Andrew, who’s holding some files.
“Morning, Jackson.” His brow wrinkles as he scans my face. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say.
Andrew holds up the files in his hands. “The Pinnacle Media campaign is ready for your review and sign-off.”
“Great, thanks,” I say, taking the files from him. “I’ll take a look this afternoon.” With that, I continue down the hallway.
“Jackson,” Andrew calls out.
I turn around again.
Andrew hesitates. “You know if there’s something that’s bothering you, you can always talk to me, right?” He quickly adds, “I mean, I know Eric would want me to look out for you.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Of course.”
I head to my office, plopping down on my chair and putting Andrew’s files on my desk.
After logging in to my computer, I check my inbox, but all my eyes want to do is just close, and it’s a struggle to read anything without all the words blurring together.
I give up after five minutes, standing up and heading for the elevators.
I feel like a zombie, and my body is craving caffeine.
Preferably from The Daily Brew.
Beyond my need for coffee, I have a strong urge to see Isabelle again.
That’s never happened before. Not with her or any other woman.
My conversation with her last night ended abruptly after I offered to be her fake boyfriend for a second time, surprising myself.
The fake rejection, to borrow Aaron’s words, I received last time at The Daily Brew should’ve been a clear forget it sign for me. But I ignored it. It’s confusing, like being unable to come up with an answer to a difficult exam question, no matter how many times you stare at it.
It’s not to do with needing a date for the Wonderland Marketing Awards either because, as conceited as it sounds, I know I can meet someone at a bar and ask them to be my date.
Seeing Isabelle upset at something she read on her phone last night felt like a needle pricking my chest—another foreign sensation because, as far as I know, the last thing I care about is her feelings.
Yet last night, all I wanted to do was cheer her up and find a solution to whatever dilemma she was facing.
My thoughts occupy me throughout my walk to The Daily Brew, and when I arrive, I join the line of customers behind Isabelle’s counter. Luckily, it’s a fairly short wait until it’s my turn.
“Hey,” I say to Isabelle. “Just my usual.”
“Coming right up.” Isabelle scans my face. “Are you all right? You look like you haven’t slept at all. No offense.”
“Great observation,” I drawl. “That’s because I haven’t slept at all.”
A frown curls on her face. “What the hell were you doing last night?”
“Working,” I say, opting for the truth.
“Do you often pull all-nighters for work?”
I don’t resist the smug smile that tugs on the corner of my lips. I knew coming here would be a good idea. “Worried about my health?”
Isabelle rolls her eyes and enters my order. “I’m only stating the obvious.”
“Whatever you say,” I say, taking out my wallet to pay.
“What were you working on anyway?” she asks.
I opt for the truth. “A marketing proposal for a client.”
“And you left it to the last minute?”
“No. The client wanted me to redo it at the last minute.”
“That sounds awfully demanding.”
I heave a sigh. “I know.”
Isabelle heads to her workstation and starts preparing my coffee. Her ponytail swishes as she moves about, cleaning and drying a portafilter, and something in my chest pulls tight.
Because I can see it. Isabelle in my kitchen. Working my espresso machine, with her long hair tied up in a high ponytail, like it is now. Stealing my favorite mug from me. Teasing me about being caffeine-addicted.
My body freezes at the imagery. What the hell is happening?
Isabelle glances up at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling my Adam’s apple bob.
It’s one thing to worry about her when she was upset last night. It’s another to be actively thinking about her—daydreaming about her—in a domestic setting like my apartment.
And I have a feeling it’s not because of my lack of sleep.
“Anyway, I was just saying that you shouldn’t have to give in like that,” she says, grabbing a bottle of milk and pouring it inside a pitcher.
I exhale at the reminder. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” she asks, genuinely curious.
“Because he’s one of the company’s biggest clients.” The words sound pathetic as they exit my mouth.
Isabelle pauses what she’s doing. “I get that, but you’re not someone who would take crap from a person like that. So, why let him walk over you?”
Her tone isn’t judgmental, but the words repeat in my head, the implication ringing loudly in my ears.
You’re too weak to say no, Jackson. It’s always been like this, hasn’t it? First to your dad and now to clients at work.
Something bitter and ugly coats my tongue, and without thinking through my words, I say, “Well, maybe not all of us get to clock out on time.”
My heart pounds loudly against my chest, regret coiling around my body like a thick rope, as soon as the words leave my mouth—and even more so when Isabelle blinks, taken aback, hurt splattering across her face.
“I’m so sorry,” I immediately say. “That was a shitty comment to make.”
Regardless of intention, there are no excuses for saying something that would have a hurtful impact.
“No, you’re right.” Sarcasm fuels Isabelle’s voice. “I’m just a silly little barista who gets to leave work on time while you do overtime at your big-boy corporate job.”
“No, that’s definitely not how I think about you,” I breathe. “I was pissed at myself, but I shouldn’t have projected my feelings on to you.”
Isabelle places my order on the pickup counter, avoiding eye contact with me. “It’s fine. Your coffee’s ready.” The ice-cold tone in her voice is a direct blow to my chest. “Don’t burn yourself.”
My gaze desperately searches for hers. “Isabelle, I—”
“Next waiting!” she calls out.
My shoulders slumping, I take my coffee and reluctantly head toward the exit.
Last night seemed like a turning point for us, but we’ve taken two steps forward and another step back. All because of a stupid comment I made.
By the time I return to my office, I’m feeling no better.
Once might be a fluke. But this is the second time I’m caring about Isabelle’s feelings or about Isabelle. Twice is the start of a pattern.
Rubbing my temples, I open up my emails. My inbox has piled up again during the time I left my desk, but instead of checking my emails or reviewing the files Andrew gave me earlier, all I want to do is crawl onto a couch and take a nap.
Taking a few large gulps of my coffee, I force myself to get to work and block out thoughts of Isabelle. I’ll take a nap during lunchtime later. Right now, my team is depending on me to get things done, not sit back and procrastinate.