“No way!”
“Yep. I bought the house back a few years ago. Want to see it tomorrow?”
“Can we, Mom?”
“Of course. You and your dad can make a day of it.”
Amelia’s smile faltered. “You’re not coming?”
Daisy hesitated. “I just think it’ll be special for you two to have that time together.”
Jameson’s gaze softened, though something unspoken lingered there. It wasn’t lost on either of them that their first conversation had been about his hometown. The scene swirled around in her head and flashed through her memory.
“An accent?” she had said.
“That’s an odd name.”
She pulled her hand away.
“No, that’s not my name, I… oh.” Daisy frowned, realizing his little joke a moment too late.
“Funny guy,” she muttered under her breath.
“Some may say. The accent is English, in case you were wondering. Born and bred in Surrey.”
Daisy’s eyes lit with curiosity. “That’s so cool. I’ve always wanted to go there. I heard England is beautiful.”
Jameson gave her his now infamous side smirk, one that made her insides turn liquid. “Ehh, it’s all right. Say if you ever go, I’ll give you a list of all the best places to visit.”
Daisy sat back in her seat, biting down a smile. “Yeah, that’d be cool.”
And now—she was here. He’d made good on that promise.
“I’d love for you to come,” he said softly, pulling her back to the present. “But no pressure.”
“I’ll let you know.”
They spent the rest of the evening unpacking, eating light, and turning in early.
The next morning came too soon. Still, Daisy found herself in the passenger seat of Jameson’s car, the English countryside stretching endlessly beyond the window.
Amelia peppered her dad with questions about his childhood, his music, his life before fame. Jameson answered them all. His voice was warm with nostalgia as he spoke of his father, a musician who’d taught him everything.
Then Amelia asked, “Do you still see your dad?”
Jameson’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “No, I don’t. He passed a few years ago.”
Daisy’s heart stilled. She hadn’t known.
“He was sick for a long time,” he said quietly. “Passed in his sleep. It wasn’t public.”
“I’m so sorry,” Daisy murmured.
“Me too,” Amelia whispered. “Did he live here?”
“No. He was always on the road. Took his final breath in Morocco, guitar by his side, fresh off a gig. He died doing what he loved most.”
But Daisy heard the hollow ache beneath the words. To her, it was clear: he should’ve loved his son more.
