Picking Daisies on Sundays (Picking Daisies on Sundays, #1)

by Liana Cincotti

Could he see my love for him painted across my face?

Do you hear that? That’s the sound of my heart knocking against my chest at the sight of you

“I wanted to tell you that you looked beautiful because you are. I knew I wouldn’t miss you when you walked in tonight because you’re you. You’re so physically enthralling, let alone when you speak. And when you speak, all of the light in the room comes from you. You’re absolute sunshine and spring. I could watch you speak—”

“You intoxicate me, Daisy. The scent of flowers lingers on you everywhere you go, and I always want to follow,”

But no one tells you how much love feels like grief until you have your heart broken and realize you can’t take any of it back.

“You’ll know you’re in love when being around them never feels long enough. Everything you learn about them will be beautiful pockets of information, no matter how flawed. Your hands will be clammy, and you’ll trip over your words when you’re around them. But if they love you back, they’ll only think that it makes you lovelier.”

“You bought me flowers,” I said pulling away. “Thank you.” ​“I’ll buy you flowers every day for the rest of my life if it makes you this happy.”

“That’s it! That’s it! Picking Daisies on Sundays.”

“What are you saying?” ​“I’m saying that if I knew four years ago that you loved me, I would’ve never let you go.”

“You love me?” I whispered. His shoulders relaxed and his eyes went weak with desire. ​“I love you more than my heart can physically handle.”

He smiled back. “Say you love me,” he murmured against my lips. ​Without a second thought, I said, “I love you.”

“I hate you,” I muttered. ​“You love me,” he argued. ​“I do,” I succumbed.