Sitting in her usual spot, Daisy pretended to read her textbook and waited to see if Jameson would take his normal seat.
When he did, she instantly felt angry, an emotion she had never felt toward him before. This surprised her; she was much more hurt than she realized.
Feeling him inch closer, she heard him whisper, “Have fun on your date last Friday?”
Her anger flared hot. “I did, actually. College guys… they’re something else.”
“Whatever,” he replied in a low, angry voice.
“He was really amazing. We had the best time—”
Jameson cut her short. “Is this because of the dance?”
“The what?” She feigned ignorance.
He rolled his eyes, obviously annoyed at her lack of concern.
“If you only knew,” he muttered.
Their teacher walked in, cutting off the war of words, but Daisy felt the distance cement between them. For the first time since they’d met, Jameson stopped teasing her. Stopped noticing her.
And Daisy, who had once found so much joy in the simple sound of his voice, now only heard silence.
Chapter Four
HOMECOMING.
The biggest and most talked-about event of the fall.
And Daisy wasn’t going.
It wasn’t that she minded going stag; it was the thought of watching Jameson with Rochelle for an entire night that made her stomach twist.
She had overheard her brother bragging about a lock-in Rochelle was hosting after the dance. Apparently, half the sophomore class was invited. Daisy hated the thought of Jameson being there, but what could she do? Confess her feelings and risk him laughing in her face?
Yeah… hard pass.
Over the past week, Daisy had done more reflecting than she cared to admit. She knew her feelings for Jameson weren’t going away anytime soon, but she also realized she had other things to pour herself into. For one, she was selling more of her art. That meant she could spend her weekends doing what she loved instead of watching him with someone else.
So, while the dance raged on, Daisy was bent over her easel, working on a piece for a charity auction her parents supported. She was so deep in the colors that the creak of her studio door startled her. She spun, paintbrush still in hand—
—and froze.
Jameson stood in the doorway.
Her breath caught.
“What are you doing here?”
He rubbed a hand down his face, eyes darting everywhere but at her. “I don’t know.”
The Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun” droned from the stereo. Daisy reached to turn it down, crossing the room cautiously.
“Good song,” Jameson said, pointing at the speaker. “British blokes.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“My grandfather met the lead singer once. Said he was a cool guy.”
