“Don’t you need to get back to Rochelle’s lock-in?”
“I told her I wasn’t feeling well. Lenny dropped me off here.” He tilted his head, catching her gaze. “Don’t worry, he knows how to keep a secret. If that’s what you want.”
She swallowed. “I’m not sure what I want.”
“You don’t have to decide tonight. Just know this—I like being around you. You’re amazing, Daisy. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. And while I’d like to be more than friends, I’ll take whatever I can get.”
Her heart hammered.
She wanted more. He wanted more. But was she ready?
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I… really like you, too. But I like being your friend, and maybe we should just see what happens.”
Jameson smiled. “I’d be happy with that.”
Her grin stretched until her cheeks hurt.
“So,” she said, “where do we start?”
He grabbed the remote. “I think we should start withThe Breakfast Club, if you’re up for it.”
She arched her brow.
“What? Eighties movies are my thing.”
Daisy laughed and inched closer.
The morning light began to creep through the blinds when Daisy stirred awake. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she rememberedhim—his warmth beside her, his arm around her, and the quiet comfort of the night.
After they started the movie, Jameson had draped his arm around her. Having never cuddled with a boy before, Daisy was stiff with nerves, unsure of what to do with her own body. It took nearly an hour for her to finally relax, and by the end of the film,she felt like she could have lived in his arms forever. Judging by the way she wasn’t letting up, he probably knew it.
“While I love having you close, I really need to use the loo,” Jameson murmured.
“The what?”
He chuckled at her puzzled look. “The bathroom.”
“Oh.” Daisy scrambled to her feet. “It’s through that door.” She pointed to the back of the pool house.
“Thanks,darlin’.”
When he returned a few minutes later, he didn’t sit back down. Instead, he stood before her easel, studying the unfinished painting she had been working on when he arrived.
“How long have you been painting?”
Daisy joined him, brushing her dark hair back. “As long as I can remember. My aunt Devya is an artist. She owns a gallery in Manhattan. She bought me my first art set when I was little. I’ve been hooked ever since.”
He tilted his head, pointing at the canvas. “And this one? A paying customer, I presume?”
She laughed. “This one’s for a charity auction. But yes, I do have a few paying customers.”
“Wow, I’m impressed.”
“Oh, don’t be. Most of my ‘customers’ are friends of my parents.”
“That doesn’t matter, Daisy.” His gaze swept the room, lingering on her scattered canvases. “This. Your art. That’s what matters. Your talent is wild.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. “Thanks.” She looked away.
