And Daisy reveled.
He wasn’t the only one who had moved on.
“Trying to make me jealous?” he asked.
“Why on earth would I do that?”
He regained his composure.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Why would you?”
Her gaze dipped. Was she?
Of course not.
Maybe a little.
He sighed. “Oh, shit.”
“What?”
He tipped his chin toward her father, whose steps were clipped and deliberate, the kind that drew fearful eyes. His jaw was locked tight, lips a grim slash.
“Does he hate me?”
Daisy scoffed, “You have to ask?”
“What the hell is he doing here?” Philip demanded, positioning himself between Daisy and Jameson.
“Mr. Daniels,” Jameson said, offering a hand. Philip didn’t so much as glance at it. His focus was only on his daughter, eyes narrowing like he could read every thought she wasn’t saying.
“I’m quite the art enthusiast,” Jameson said, lowering his hand. “I wanted to support Daisy and her gallery on her big night.”
“Support Daisy?” Philip’s voice rose, edged with disbelief. “Support? You forfeited that right the day you walked away from her.”
The words hit hard. Daisy wanted to speak, to smooth it over, but her throat closed.
Philip dragged his gaze off Jameson and back onto Daisy. “I didn’t realize you two had reconnected?”
She shook her head quickly. “We haven’t.” No further explanation.
There was a silent conversation between them, his eyes asking if she was safe, hers begging him not to escalate. When she mouthed, “I’m fine,” he didn’t look convinced. He lingered a beat too long, as though analyzing her face for any sign of fallacy, before finally tilting his head toward Jameson and muttering, “I’ll be watching you.”
“I’d expect nothing less, sir.”
When he was safely away, they both let out a sigh.
“I don’t think it went that badly,” Jameson said.
“You’re lucky there are people around. My dad won’t cause a scene with an audience.”
“You think the old man would sucker-punch me?”
“Yes. I think a sucker punch is long overdue. If we were alone, he wouldn’t hesitate.”
Then he grew oddly quiet.
“Does he know?”
