Without thinking, she reached over and squeezed Jameson’s shoulder. The gesture said what words couldn’t—I know. I’m here. You should’ve mattered more.
The rest of the drive passed in silence, the windows down, music drifting through the air as the sunlight spilled over them.
When they pulled up to the cottage nestled among the blistering English oaks, Daisy couldn’t help but smile. It looked exactly as she’d imagined when he used to tell her stories of his childhood in Surrey. It was quaint and timeless.
Through the window, Margot appeared, clapping her hands excitedly as the car rolled up the short, unpaved drive.
Crossing the threshold, Daisy was hit by the smell of rosemary and marinated beef, the scent so vivid it hurled her back to age fifteen. The home was small, just two bedrooms, but it overflowed with character; it had charm that could put any HGTV renovation to shame.
Margot led them on a quick tour, explaining that Jameson’s room had been restored to look nearly identical to how it once was. She’d repainted the walls their original hue, hunted down furniture that matched his boyhood pieces, and even kept his old bedspread.
“I wanted him to feel rooted when he comes back,” Margot said, running her hand over the faded quilt. “This house was our fortress.”
Daisy stood in the doorway, imagining him here—sixteen, barefoot, and guitar in hand—calling her across an ocean from this very room. Her chest tightened with memory.
The past always did that to her, pulled her back into love that felt simple, unbroken, and completely pure.
They spent the afternoon in the garden, sipping tea while Margot recounted embarrassing stories about Jameson as a boy. Later, the three of them walked through town, visiting his favorite bakery, greeting Mr. Edgar—still the town’s baker after forty years—and stopping at the corner where he’d once delivered newspapers on his bike with Kyler.
Daisy had heard these stories before, but walking through them, smelling the air, tasting the bread, seeing the light fall on the same cobblestone streets, brought on a peaceful remembrance she didn’t want to let go of.
By the time the sun began to set, they said their goodbyes and headed back to London for the barbecue.
Anna was already in the backyard. She was perched on a neon pool floaty, floppy hat tilted over her face and a martini in hand.
“She looks right at home,” Jameson murmured with a smirk.
“Can I go swim?” Amelia asked, bouncing with energy.
“Sure, go change quickly. I have an idea.” He winked, then turned to Daisy. “Don’t let her know we’re back.”
Minutes later, the two of them burst through the back door and cannonballed straight into the pool, drenching Anna.
Daisy doubled over laughing as Anna climbed out, soaked from head to toe, except for her martini, which she still held perfectly upright.
“Little buggers,” she huffed.
“‘Buggers’? How British of you.”
“When in Rome.” She tipped the rest of the drink back with flair.
Daisy shook her head, watching them—both of them—and felt a pang in her chest she didn’t want to name.
Leaving them to swim, she went upstairs to take a quick rest, then slipped into her dress for the evening. She was touching up her makeup when a soft knock came at the door.
“Come in!” she called.
Jameson poked his head through. “Hey. Sorry to bother you.”
“Not a problem,” she said, setting down her brush and turning toward him.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes skimming the length of her before he caught himself.
A shiver ran through her.
“Do I have a stain somewhere?” she asked, glancing down at her floral dress. Half teasing, half testing.
He shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. “No. You’re just… a damn beautiful woman, Daisy Daniels.”
