Chapter Four
HOMECOMING.
The biggest and most talked-about event of the fall.
And Daisy wasn’t going.
It wasn’t that she minded going stag; it was the thought of watching Jameson with Rochelle for an entire night that made her stomach twist.
She had overheard her brother bragging about a lock-in Rochelle was hosting after the dance. Apparently, half the sophomore class was invited. Daisy hated the thought of Jameson being there, but what could she do? Confess her feelings and risk him laughing in her face?
Yeah… hard pass.
Over the past week, Daisy had done more reflecting than she cared to admit.
She knew her feelings for Jameson weren’t going away anytime soon, but she also realized she had other things to pour herself into.
For one, she was selling more of her art.
That meant she could spend her weekends doing what she loved instead of watching him with someone else.
So, while the dance raged on, Daisy was bent over her easel, working on a piece for a charity auction her parents supported. She was so deep in the colors that the creak of her studio door startled her. She spun, paintbrush still in hand—
—and froze.
Jameson stood in the doorway.
Her breath caught.
“What are you doing here?”
He rubbed a hand down his face, eyes darting everywhere but at her. “I don’t know.”
The Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun” droned from the stereo. Daisy reached to turn it down, crossing the room cautiously.
“Good song,” Jameson said, pointing at the speaker. “British blokes.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“My grandfather met the lead singer once. Said he was a cool guy.”
“Okay, that is pretty cool.”
Daisy could clearly see that he wasn’t himself; his shoulders were slouched, his gaze was stuck to the floor. Jameson Kingston, usually so effortlessly confident, looked… uneasy.
“Jameson, are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” he said again, eyes finally meeting hers.
“If you’re fine, I think you should leave.”
The words shocked her even as they slipped out. She had spent the last two weeks begging the universe for him to say something, anything and now she was sending him away.
“I came to apologize.”
She blinked. “About what?”
“The dance… and Rochelle.”
“Why?” Daisy bit her lip. “We’re not dating. We don’t even like each other that way. You were free to ask her.”
“That’s the thing, Daisy.” His voice dropped. “I didn’t want to ask her. I wanted to ask you.”
Her pulse skipped. His confession both stunned and warmed her, but confusion tangled it up. “Then why didn’t you?”
“It’s complicated, but please believe me.”
Not satisfied with his answer, she crossed her arms over herself. Her eyes were hard, demanding an explanation.
He hesitated and ran a hand through his hair. “Because he said I couldn’t. Okay?”
Her brows shot up. “Who?”
“Your brother.” His tone was bitter, almost ashamed.
Daisy felt an instant tangle of emotions—elation that Jameson had wanted to ask her, but fury that Sean had interfered.
“Why would he—”
“He’s protective of you. Too protective.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it,” she huffed, dropping onto the leather couch.
Jameson sat beside her, close enough that her pulse fluttered. “Look, it wasn’t just me. A few other guys wanted to ask you, too. Sean shut it down before it started.”
“Gahh, Sean!” Daisy hurled a pillow across the room.
“Sorry,” he said softly.
“You don’t have to apologize. My brother’s an ass.”
His lips twitched upward.
“What?” she demanded.
“Nothing. I’ve just never heard you curse. It’s… cute.”
Her cheeks burned. “I rarely do. Only when it’s warranted.”
They fell into silence. Comfortable, almost charged. Jameson broke it by glancing at her TV. “Wanna watch a movie?”
“Don’t you need to get back to Rochelle’s lock-in?”
“I told her I wasn’t feeling well. Lenny dropped me off here.” He tilted his head, catching her gaze. “Don’t worry, he knows how to keep a secret. If that’s what you want.”
She swallowed. “I’m not sure what I want.”
“You don’t have to decide tonight. Just know this—I like being around you. You’re amazing, Daisy. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. And while I’d like to be more than friends, I’ll take whatever I can get.”
Her heart hammered.
She wanted more. He wanted more. But was she ready?
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I… really like you, too. But I like being your friend, and maybe we should just see what happens.”
Jameson smiled. “I’d be happy with that.”
Her grin stretched until her cheeks hurt.
“So,” she said, “where do we start?”
He grabbed the remote. “I think we should start with The Breakfast Club, if you’re up for it.”
She arched her brow.
“What? Eighties movies are my thing.”
Daisy laughed and inched closer.
The morning light began to creep through the blinds when Daisy stirred awake. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she remembered him—his warmth beside her, his arm around her, and the quiet comfort of the night.
After they started the movie, Jameson had draped his arm around her.
Having never cuddled with a boy before, Daisy was stiff with nerves, unsure of what to do with her own body.
It took nearly an hour for her to finally relax, and by the end of the film, she felt like she could have lived in his arms forever.
Judging by the way she wasn’t letting up, he probably knew it.
“While I love having you close, I really need to use the loo,” Jameson murmured.
“The what?”
He chuckled at her puzzled look. “The bathroom.”
“Oh.” Daisy scrambled to her feet. “It’s through that door.” She pointed to the back of the pool house.
“Thanks, darlin’.”
When he returned a few minutes later, he didn’t sit back down. Instead, he stood before her easel, studying the unfinished painting she had been working on when he arrived.
“How long have you been painting?”
Daisy joined him, brushing her dark hair back. “As long as I can remember. My aunt Devya is an artist. She owns a gallery in Manhattan. She bought me my first art set when I was little. I’ve been hooked ever since.”
He tilted his head, pointing at the canvas. “And this one? A paying customer, I presume?”
She laughed. “This one’s for a charity auction. But yes, I do have a few paying customers.”
“Wow, I’m impressed.”
“Oh, don’t be. Most of my ‘customers’ are friends of my parents.”
“That doesn’t matter, Daisy.” His gaze swept the room, lingering on her scattered canvases. “This. Your art. That’s what matters. Your talent is wild.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. “Thanks.” She looked away.
“This piece,” she said after a pause, “is an oil painting called The Word.”
Jameson studied it again. “And what exactly is the word?”
“The Word of God,” she explained softly. “The brown you see here is a wooden table. I’ll add an open Bible at the center, maybe candlesticks on either side.”
He leaned in, eyes following the brushstrokes. “So you see it all in your head before you start?”
“Yes. My process is simple. I envision it, then I paint.”
“Incredible,” he whispered, almost to himself.
Daisy pulled her blanket around her shoulders and curled back onto the couch. “So what about you, Jameson Kingston?”
He sat beside her, stretching an arm lazily across the back cushion. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
And so he told her.
Jameson was born in Surrey, England, to Neil Benson and Margot Kingston.
His father, a musician in a moderately known English rock band, passed down a love for music.
They would often spend late nights strumming guitars and scribbling lyrics together while his mother slept.
But his father’s substance abuse and hard-living lifestyle eventually shattered the family.
By the time Jameson was nine, his parents had split.
His mother, determined to start fresh, followed her brother to Boston.
While their parents worked to carve out the “American Dream,” Jameson built his own kind of safety, teaching his cousins to play instruments and forming a ragtag band they called The Kings Court. Music stitched their lives together, even as everything else shifted.
After six years, opportunity pulled the family west—his uncle was offered a position at UCSF Medical Center, and his mother, a nurse, found work at a hospital in San Mateo. Without hesitation, they packed up and left Boston behind.
Daisy listened, rapt. His voice was low, threaded with the weight of memory.
Suddenly, a realization hit her. “Oh… it all makes sense now.”
Jameson quirked a brow. “What does?”
“Your accent. I’ve always wondered why you didn’t sound more… British. I can hear it, but it’s softer. Living here for six years, it’s no wonder it’s a little watered down.”
He smirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Please do.”
Their laughter faded into quiet comfort. Daisy hesitated before asking, “So why do you have your mother’s last name?”
He shook his head. “Short version: my parents were never married. So Mum gave me the Kingston name.”
“I see.”
“Honestly, I’m glad she did. ‘Bensons Court’ doesn’t have quite the same ring.”
Daisy grinned at that, then gathered her courage for a more delicate question. “Can I ask you something else? Unrelated to family?”
“You can ask me anything.” He stretched out, draping an easy arm around her shoulders.
“Why do you sometimes call me darlin’?”
Jameson’s expression softened. “Because my dad used to call my mum that. Every time he said it, she lit up like a bulb. I loved seeing her happy.”
“That’s… sweet.”
The tenderness in his face shifted, clouded. “Yeah, it was. For a while.”
Daisy reached for his arm, her heart aching. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was good once. But in the end, the lifestyle meant more to him than Mum and me.” He shrugged, but his eyes betrayed the sting. “His loss.”
Daisy let the silence linger, afraid to break the fragile truth hanging between them. Then, with a small smile, she nudged the remote. “Another movie?”
Jameson grinned faintly. “Another movie.”
Daisy wasn’t sure how she’d ended up asleep pressed against Jameson’s chest, but there she was, his arm slung across her waist like it belonged there. She didn’t mind his warmth, but the hard pressure against her lower back made her breath hitch.
Breathe. Just breathe.
They must have dozed off during the second movie, shifting into the spooning position they were in now. Daisy had barely cuddled with a boy, let alone… this. She had no idea what the protocol was.
Trying to ease herself free, she inched upward, carefully lifting his heavy arm. But Jameson stirred, pulling her closer instead, a soft sound escaping his throat.
Her pulse hammered. Was he awake? Was he enjoying this? Part of her—one she hardly recognized—rejoiced at the closeness. The other part was mortified.
Should she lie still and let him sleep, or wake him before things became even more awkward?
Daisy chose the latter. She gave his hand a squeeze and whispered, “Hey… Jameson.”
No response.
She tried again, a little louder. “Jameson?” Still nothing.
With a dramatic sigh, she muttered, “Jameson Kingston, future rock star, please wake up.”
His voice came instantly, low and amused. “You said the magic words.”
Daisy shot upright, spinning to face him. “You were awake this whole time?”
A guilty grin tugged at his lips. “Maybe.”
Mortified, she buried her face in her hands.
“I woke up right before the first ‘Hey, Jameson,’” he confessed, laughter rumbling from his chest.
She nudged his side with her elbow and stuck out her tongue. “Jerk.”
Jameson only laughed harder. “Sorry about my… unexpected friend here.”
Her cheeks flamed so hot she was sure they matched the crimson bow tie he’d worn to the dance.
Speaking of… and moving away from that topic.
“You spent the night,” she said, more a statement than a question.
“It appears so.” He stretched, unfazed.
“Isn’t your mom going to freak out?”
He shook his head. “Nah. She thinks I’m at Rochelle’s lock-in. Lenny’s covering for me; he’ll pick me up soon.”
Daisy’s chest tightened. She didn’t want this to end, but she knew it had to. If her parents found out Jameson had stayed, there would be hell to pay.
Before he could leave, she blurted, “What are we, Jameson?”
He rubbed his eyes, considering. Finally, he said, “We’re friends, Daisy.”
Her heart dipped.
But then he added, “Friends who like to cuddle. Friends who flirt in biology. Friends who apparently have sleepovers. Friends who like being around each other. And maybe…” His eyes softened. “Friends who could one day be more than just friends.”
She instantly warmed as silence fell between them. Then Jameson’s phone buzzed.
“Lenny’s here,” he said reluctantly.
“Okay.”
At the door, he turned, caught her by the waist, and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. “See you Monday, darlin’.”
And then he was gone.