Daisy moved on, trailing the years of his career: London, Paris, Tokyo, their first Grammys. She remembered watching that night, against her better judgment.
She’d told herself she wouldn’t. But curiosity won. She had flipped on the TV just in time to see them win Best New Artist.
She should have been happy, ecstatic, even. Their Grammy win was everything they’d worked for, and she cheered on through the lump in her throat. But as the camera swept the audience, it stopped on her.
The woman at his side.
She was radiant, glamorous, and her fingers were possessively looped through Jameson’s.
His wife—well, now ex-wife.
Daisy’s pride curdled into something sharp, a reminder that the chapter of her life with him was not only over but rewritten without her.
“You’ve had quite the life,” she murmured.
“It’s been a wild ride.”
They moved on until she stopped at a small photo: the two of them, arm in arm, on prom night.
“We were so young,” she whispered.
“That was a great night.” Jameson chuckled.
“I’m surprised you remember. You and Kyler must have had ten of those god-awful wine coolers.”
“I remember.” He grinned. “The music, the dancing, and a rather fond Land Cruiser memory I’ll never repeat in front of our daughter.”
Our daughter.
Daisy blushed, swatting his arm. Despite his drunken state, it had been a great night.
“What’s in here?” Daisy pointed to a room with an open door.
Jameson led her through and said, “This is my current home.”
“You still live with your mom?” Daisy joked.
He plopped down onto his bed. “Temporarily.”
“I’m only kidding. You could probably afford six of these houses.”
Jameson didn’t disagree. “What can I say? My fans have been good to me.”
Daisy smiled at him over her shoulder, then began walking around his bedroom. It smelled faintly of cedar and cologne. She looked at his photos, browsed through his magazines, and tried to make small talk as she slowly paced.
“You know I don’t bite.”
“Huh?”
“Daisy, sit down. If I make you uncomfortable, I will stand and you can sit.”
“I’ve known you since I was fourteen years old, Jameson. You don’t make me uncomfortable,” she shot back, though her pulse betrayed her.
“Then sit.”
She did.
“I always knew I’d get you back in my bed.”
