Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
ISABELLE
On Monday afternoon, I’m standing outside the building that features Carter Marketing Solutions’ office.
The plan wasn’t to come here. I finished my shift at The Daily Brew fifteen minutes ago, and I planned to head straight for the subway station, as I normally do after work.
Somehow, I ended up googling Carter Marketing Solutions’ office address, and my feet brought me here.
As the weekend progressed and my hangover cured, the events of Friday night replayed in my mind like a movie on repeat—at least the parts I could remember. Each memory only added to the embarrassment piling up within me.
Of all people, I just had to get drunk in front of Jackson.
I can’t remember everything I said to him, but I recall the, “You can take off my dress,” remark I made inside his car. I’m pretty sure I also batted my eyelashes at him. He probably thought I was trying to seduce him.
At this rate, the word mortified in the dictionary might as well include a picture of my face next to it.
On a more serious note, Jackson also punched Oliver and threatened him in front of everyone.
That was the first time I had seen him that mad. The flash of anger I witnessed in his eyes looked so incredibly and undeniably real. But again, he also kissed me and told me not to think too much about it afterward, so maybe it was only a part of his fake-boyfriend act.
Yesterday, I drafted an Instagram message to send to Jackson, thanking him for what he did for me on Friday night and gauging whether he might be willing to meet my parents as my fake boyfriend one more time. In the end, I chickened out as I was about to send it.
Now, I’ve been standing here for who knows how long, contemplating on visiting his office, even though, theoretically, that should be more nerve-racking than sending him a simple text.
A woman in her fifties, wearing corporate attire and heels, walks out from the building. There’s a frown on her face when she sees me standing there in my T-shirt and jeans.
Hesitation crawls through my skin. Showing up to Jackson’s workplace without notice isn’t the best idea, especially in my casual attire. I should go home and text him, as I originally intended.
I turn on my heel, preparing to leave.
“Isabelle, is that you?”
It’s Aaron’s voice.
Too late.
I swivel around, facing him. A nervous laugh flows from my mouth. “Hey, Aaron. I was just, uh …”
“Jackson’s office is on the eleventh floor.”
“That’s great to know.” I point a finger toward the direction of the nearest subway station. “But you know what? Maybe I’ll save that for next time—”
“Jackson’s been sad at work all day,” Aaron blurts out.
The thought of Jackson being sad pulls at something in my heart. “He has?”
Aaron nods eagerly. “His, uh, houseplants died.”
“Jackson has houseplants?”
“He did. Before they … died.”
I stare at him suspiciously. “Right.”
“Maybe you could visit him,” Aaron suggests.
I hesitate. “He’s probably busy with work.”
“Nah, it’s fine.” A grin twists Aaron’s lips. “He’s just chilling in his office right now.”
I’m pretty sure Aaron made up the houseplants thing, but I’m here anyway, so I might as well rip off the Band-Aid and go ahead with seeing Jackson.
“All right,” I say.
The smile on his face widens. “Allow me to lead the way.”
We take the elevator, arriving on the eleventh floor. Aaron leads me down the hallway, and we walk past a water cooler and several cubicles with workers hunched over their desks.
I rub my sweaty palms against my jeans, my heart beating fast. I feel like I’m a teenager who’s gathering the courage to walk up to their high school crush.
Except this is Jackson Carter. I’ve never been nervous when it comes to him, until now, apparently.
Jackson’s office door is already open, and he’s at his desk, reviewing some documents while taking notes with a pen, his brows furrowed in concentration. His tie is slightly loose, and the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up, revealing his forearms.
I suck in a breath. It should be illegal for someone to look this good.
Aaron knocks once. “Your three p.m. appointment is here, Mr. CEO.”
Jackson doesn’t glance up from his notes. “I don’t have a three p.m. meeting.”
Aaron turns to me. “Looks like you’ll have to make another appointment. Sorry about that, Isabelle.”
Jackson’s pen freezes mid-page when he hears my name, and he whips his head up, his gaze raking over me in a way that sends a treacherous, fiery trail down my body. My heart flutters like a kite blowing wildly in the wind.
Without even doing anything, he’s capable of having an effect on me no one else ever has.
“My work here is done,” Aaron gleefully says.
I almost forget he’s still standing here. He disappears down the hallway before Jackson or I can say anything.
A smug look enters Jackson’s face, a reminder of the cocky Jackson I’m more used to. “Miss me already?”
All traces of nervousness within me wither away. “You wish.”
His gaze still locked on me, he seamlessly spins his pen. I don’t know how he makes a simple move seem so attractive. “To what do I owe the pleasure then?”
“Thought I’d finally repay the favor after all those times you visited me at The Daily Brew.”
Jackson laughs, the sound rich and velvety as it vibrates in his office. “It was only three times.”
“I wasn’t counting.”
That’s a big, fat lie.
His gaze trails over me again. “You planning on coming inside?”
“I was waiting for you to invite me inside.”
Our eyes lock, silence hovering in the air and an electric current flowing between us. Tingles shoot through my body like bubbles of champagne popping.
“No invitation needed, Isabelle,” he finally says. “You’re always welcome here.”
I walk inside, shutting the door after me and taking a seat at the chair in front of his desk. His office is minimalistic. Save for a potted plant in the corner and an abstract painting on the wall, there’s no other decor, as if he hasn’t put much effort in decorating it.
“I … wanted to thank you for your help on Friday night,” I say.
He studies me carefully. “How much of it do you remember?”
“Most of it,” I admit. “Oliver acting like an ass and you punching him, you taking me home, me drunk and lying to Ivy that you were my boyfriend, me throwing up and you holding back my hair, you tidying up the mess on my floor …”
Jackson’s silent for a moment. “You forgot the part where you were pretending to be a penguin and starfish.”
I freeze, feeling my cheeks flush with heat. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not. I had a front-row seat to that show.”
I’m officially never drinking again.
“Okay, maybe that did happen, but let me finish my speech first,” I grumble. “I was actually having a moment here and trying to show some appreciation.”
Jackson chuckles and leans back in his seat. “All right, please continue. I’m all ears.”
“As I was saying, I wanted to thank you for doing all that,” I say.
“I know there was all this random fabric on my apartment floor, but you didn’t have to feel obligated to tidy it up and buy a new shelf for me.
And I can probably clean your apartment floor if you want to be even.
Fair warning: I’m not the most organized person, so I might end up making more of a mess, but—”
“Isabelle.” Jackson cuts my rambling off. The way he says my name is enough to shut me up.
Amusement swirls in his brown eyes. But there’s something else—a tenderness and warmth that’s as comforting as a nice cup of tea on a cold day.
“I didn’t tidy the stuff on your apartment floor because I want or expect you to do the same for me.”
“I know,” I mumble.
This is embarrassing. I’m not usually like this around Jackson—or anyone for that matter. He must think I’m some rambling mess.
“Although you’re still welcome to come over to my apartment and tidy the floor if you want to,” he adds. “I won’t say no.”
“I’ll think about it,” I joke.
Jackson’s eyes search my face. “There’s another reason why you’re here, right?”
I sigh. “Yep. Which brings me to part two of my speech.” I fidget with my necklace.
Just say it, Isabelle.
“Ivy told my mom that we were dating, and when my mom called me to confirm, I might or might not have lied and said Ivy was right,” I say in one breath.
My heart starts beating rapidly again as I peer at Jackson’s face, half expecting him to be pissed. But he doesn’t look the slightest bit annoyed. If anything, he looks like he’s trying to suppress the mirth tainting his face.
Taking that as a good sign, I continue, “After that, my mom said she wanted to meet you. I made a few lame excuses, but they didn’t work. I know it’s not part of our deal, but I was wondering—”
“I’ll do it.”
I jerk my head back. “You’ll do what?” I slowly repeat, reeling from my rambling.
“I’ll meet your parents as your boyfriend.” Jackson says those words as though it’s nothing but a walk in the park. “Fake boyfriend, that is.”
I should be feeling entirely relieved, but conflicted feelings—both feeling at ease and guilt—hug my chest instead.
“Really?” I ask, my voice small.
“Really.”
“Thanks.” The word seems pathetic and small, but it’s heartfelt. “I know I’ve dragged you into enough chaos already.”
“You didn’t drag me into anything,” Jackson firmly says. “You wouldn’t have told your sister I was your boyfriend if you weren’t drunk, but I played along. So, whatever happens next, we’re in it together.”
Together. The situation doesn’t sound as bad when he says that word.
There’s cocky and charismatic Jackson, who I thought I was always immune to. Then there’s the protective, thoughtful, and caring Jackson, who I’ve been seeing more lately. Immunity to this Jackson … is nearly impossible.
A glint forms in his eyes. “Wait. Give me your phone.”
“Why?”
“I want to give you something.” Jackson flashes his dimples, and I find myself unlocking my phone and passing it to him.
“I know the Instagram DMs were fun, but now you have my number,” he says, typing something into my phone. “Usually, I tell people not to contact me before nine a.m., but I think I can make an exception for my girl.”
My girl. His words keep doing something funny to me, but I tell myself he’s just being his playful self.
Jackson passes my phone back to me, and I stare at the contact name he used for himself, not believing my eyes.
“Man of My Dreams,” I read aloud. “You know, I genuinely wonder if you sleep on an ultra-large pillow to fit your big head.”
One corner of Jackson’s mouth curls up, drawing my attention to his lips. “Big head?”
I roll my eyes at the innuendo. Jeez. What happened to men who were wholesome and non-suggestive and—
Jackson lifts me and carries me to my kitchen while I loop my legs around his waist.
Oh God. Don’t think about the dream. Don’t think about the dream.
He props me on the kitchen counter and slowly, sensually trails a path of open-mouthed kisses along my jawline—
“Isabelle.” Jackson’s voice brings me back to reality. “You zoned out. And your cheeks are quite red.”
“They’re so not,” I protest, folding my arms.
“And don’t tell me the weather’s hot this time. We’re indoors with air-conditioning.”
“I wasn’t zoning out,” I bite out. “I was just …” I rack my brain to think of a good response, but nothing comes up. My mind blanks like a web page that won’t load, no matter how many times you refresh it.
“Daydreaming?”
Now I’m annoyed with myself because I’m never shy or speechless around Jackson like this.
So, I attempt to say in a sarcastic tone, “Obviously, I’m having dreams about you.”
Except the words somehow sound more breathless and seductive rather than jeering.
I think Jackson picks up on it, too, because suddenly, his Adam’s apple bobs.
Thankfully, a knock on his office door bursts our little bubble, and Jackson clears his throat, directing his attention behind me. “Come in.”
The door opens, revealing a woman with a bob haircut. “Mr. Carter, Mr. Cavanaugh is waiting for you in conference room 1.”
Jackson nods at her. “I’ll be there in a few minutes, Clarissa.”
“Great. I’ll let him know,” Clarissa says before leaving.
“I should head off,” I say to Jackson. “See you on Friday for round two of fake dating?”
A mischievous grin forms on his lips. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
My heart does somersaults as I head for the door.
Jackson’s really going above and beyond for this fake-boyfriend thing.
High school me would be in absolute shock if she heard me say this right now, but I’m happy that it’s him—and not anyone else—being my fake boyfriend.
And like Jackson said to Patricia at the reunion, we’re not in high school anymore.
As I make my way to the elevators, I think of something I can do for him. A little token of appreciation.
Hopefully, I can get it done before the awards night in Chicago.