But darlin’ I was too late,
I should have never taken the bait.
I dream about you every night,
While you painted pictures of me, for the world to see,
To get the Band Boy out, to reclaim your sanity.
Just come back to me…
Unsatisfied,
Until I die,
All the best days are left behind,
I’ll still try, I’ll still try,
Just come back, please don’t hide.
With everything, I’ll hold on, until those days aren’t forever gone.
Catch my hand, you hang on, until those days aren’t forever gone.
When the song faded, they stayed quiet. What was left to say that the music hadn’t said already? He’d taken a leap of faith, telling the truth in a way only he could, hoping—praying—she’d answer.
Jameson rose and crossed the space between them. He held out a hand, hesitant. “I want to show you something.”
Afraid of how her voice might sound, she only nodded and put her hand in his as he led her upstairs. He didn’t look back as they crossed the threshold of his bedroom, past the entrance and the bed, stopping at the far wall. The room was lit only by a lamp in the corner. It took Daisy a beat to understand what she was seeing. Positioned besideThe Picnic—the piece he’d bought when he first visited her gallery—hung a canvas she never expected to see again.
Her mouth fell open. “But… I don’t understand. How?”
There, in the soft wash of moonlight, hungThe Band Boy.
“Laura would never have given this up,” Daisy whispered.
Jameson watched her watch the painting. “Apparently, I can be persuasive. And Laura likes money. Lots of money.” Hesmiled faintly. “I called her shortly after you told me about the piece, at my mum’s. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
A laugh bubbled out of Daisy, chased by a sob as realization crashed through her. He’d done this for her. The painting she’d so desperately wanted back, he’d found it and brought it home. He had done the same with her mother’s garden, with the music. Piece by piece, he’d restored what she’d lost. All because he wanted to make up for the past—forgiveness from the girl he’d once loved. And maybe, Daisy was starting to suspect, the woman he still did.
He stood close, eyes searching her face.
“I don’t know what to say,” she breathed. “Or how to thank you.”
“You don’t have to say anything, Daisy.” His voice was reflective. “I took so much from you. This is my small way of giving something back.”
At that moment, Daisy knew exactly how to say thank you and it wasn’t with words.
She turned from the painting and stepped into him, closing the distance. Their breaths mingled. Daisy’s gaze fell to his mouth, then traced up to his nose and into those startling blue eyes—eyes that had pierced her when she was fourteen and were piercing her now. He wouldn’t make the first move; he’d promised to respect her boundaries. It was up to her.
Letting the warmth of the wine steady her courage, she slid her hand up his neck, along the edge of his jaw, and pressed her thumb to his lower lip. He went very still. She rose on her toes and brushed her mouth to his. Even that faint kiss drew a groan from deep in his throat.
She met his gaze one more time.
Then he devoured her.
Years of hurt and need and longing poured into the kiss. Unlike LA, there was no one to interrupt and nothing to stop them.
