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

by Liana Cincotti

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

“I want to be noticed in a crowded room. I want to be the only person in a crowded room. I want to be wanted, truly wanted, and desired. I want to laugh and to sing and to dance with someone and not feel self-conscious over it because I love them and I’m confident that they love me. I want to be touched and kissed and held because I’ve forgotten what it feels like … and yet, I think I deserve it.”

“Daisy, baby, what’s wrong?” ​But I couldn’t answer because tears were clogging my throat. I was gasping for air in between sobs. He pulled me into his chest, and I held onto him like he was keeping me above water. I cried, and I cried, and I cried, soaking his shirt. He brushed my hair with his hand trying to calm me down and pressed his lips to the crown of my head. Slowly pulling away, he held my face in his hands, my heart in his hands as he looked at me. ​He wiped away my tears as they fell. “Baby, I need you to breathe, okay? We’re going to take a deep breath in, just like that, and exhale. Good, give me one more.”

I am. But when I see you, all I can think about is how much better life would be if you were mine. I’m so infatuated with everything you do, from the color of your lips to the way you slide your hips back and forth when you dance to the way you twist your earrings when you’re upset or how you blush when I touch you and how you breathe when I say Daisy.”