Jameson shrugged as they spilled into the parking lot, late sun flashing across his dark hair.
“Thought I’d offer to walk you home, if you lived close.”
“That’s sweet… but why?”
He ran a hand through his locks, not meeting her eyes. “No reason. See you around.”
He turned away, falling into step with two boys who looked startlingly like him. Daisy watched until he disappeared in the crowd of students.
Biology quickly became Daisy’s favorite subject, and she would be the first one to admit that it had nothing to do with mitochondria or cell division, but everything to do with Jameson Kingston. Every stolen glance, every shared laugh made her cheeks warm. Even better were the days when their teacher allowed partner work with their tablemates. Jameson wasn’t just charming; he was sharp. And, as it turned out, not dumber than a box of rocks. He studied hard, asked questions, and made her want to raise her own hand more. Together, they fit, academically at least. She tried not to imagine how else they might fit. Tried, and failed, especially with his relentless flirting.
At first, she didn’t know how to handle it. But within a week, she’d grown comfortable with his smirks, his teasing. Comfortable enough to admit to herself that she was, without question, developing a crush.
Which was why, on Friday afternoon, Daisy’s heart plummeted when their teacher assigned lab partners for the day.
Not because of who was selected to be her lab partner, but because of who was selected to be Jameson’s.
Rochelle Higgins.
She was quite possibly the prettiest girl in the entirety of the sophomore class.
Anyone with eyes couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was. Her blonde hair was never frizzy, her makeup was always perfectly applied, and her large chest was constantly on display. Rochelle had caught the special attention of many high schoolboys and probably a couple of teachers. Daisy hoped she would not catch that type of attention from Jameson.
But Daisy was a realist. She knew that in comparison to Rochelle, she was… well, honestly, there was no comparison.
Daisy was short. Rochelle was tall.
Daisy was cute. Rochelle was gorgeous.
Rochelle had confidence, while Daisy was still a work in progress.
Daisy kept looking over her shoulder, sneaking peeks at Jameson and Rochelle, neglecting her own lab partner. Her stomach was in knots as she watched Rochelle shamelessly flirt with Jameson. It became tight when she saw her playfully push against his shoulder. It got even tighter when her finger began tracing the lower part of his bicep.
She told herself to stop looking, but her eyes betrayed her, flicking back just in time for Jameson to catch her staring. Heat flooded her cheeks and she turned away. Not embarrassed that he’d caught her, embarrassed that she cared this much, this soon.
In less than a week, she’d let him crawl into her heart. The boy with the blue eyes and that infuriating accent.
The rest of the class blurred. Daisy kept her eyes on the clock, counting down the seconds. When the bell rang, she shoved her books into her bag and bolted from the room, the tightness in her chest following her all the way out the door.
Chapter Three
DAISY WASN’T LIKE MOST GIRLSher age. Instead of spending weekends at parties or malls, she preferred to hole up in her studio, paintbrush in hand, music blasting loud enough to drown out the world. Her circle was small—Anna, her family, and her art—and she didn’t crave anything more. The fleeting friends of high school could never fill her the way creating did.
Her gift had been clear since childhood. When Daisy was five, her Aunt Devya, an artist who ran a small gallery in Tribeca, arrived from New York with a Royal & Langnickel painting chest. To Daisy’s parents, it looked like a recipe for chaos: paint stains, turpentine smells, mess everywhere. But for Daisy, it was the beginning.
By eleven, she was winning local art competitions against adults and had even caught the attention of the mayor, who asked her to paint a portrait of his beloved dachshund. Her schoolmates were wide-eyed with awe, but Daisy knew the real connection was that her father was his lawyer. Still, she let herself savor the pride of being asked.
By the time she reached high school, art wasn’t just a hobby. It was her heartbeat. Her hands were rarely clean, her sketchpad was always full, and her mind constantly wandered to the next blank canvas waiting for her. While other kids chased parties and popularity, Daisy chased color and light. And though she didn’t know it yet, the hours spent in her studio were shaping not only her craft, but the story that would one day change everything.
That Saturday afternoon, with paint streaked across her hands and the hem of her shirt, Daisy was lost in her canvas when a sharp knock cut through the music. She turned it down, opened the door, and froze. Sean stood there, flanked by three boys. One of them she recognized instantly.
Jameson Kingston.
Her “hi” came out barely audible, aimed only at him. He smirked, mouthing the word back.
“Hey, can we come in?” Sean said, already making his way into the studio. “I’m giving the guys a tour.”
“Oh, sure.” Daisy timidly stumbled back.
