Page 8 of Chaining Daisy
But the connection … that’s still humming.
Daisy and I are going to happen. It’s a certainty.
And now, I know, even if she’s not quite ready to admit it—my girl wants it just as much as I do.
DAISY
Ipant, staring up at the ceiling of my room when Gunnar leaves, my insides whirling like dead leaves caught up in an autumn breeze.What was that? What just happened?
I try to ignore the hope that creeps in—because something is clearly wrong with me. To try and make what just happened into anything more than an attempt to cheer me up is the stupidest thing I could do. My heart is already broken. I don’t think I can handle any more damage.
Besides, hoping for more is wrong. So wrong. Gunnar loved my mother for fuck’s sake. Not loved, loved … but he married her. He cared for her enough to marry her so she could get treatment. That means there’s a line ….
What would everyone say? God, I can only imagine the stares.
I shove a hand into my brunette tangles and chastise myself. “Not yours. Not yours.” He’s my stepfather. Twice my age. He’d never ….
“God, get out of bed already and stop thinking about it,”I grumble as I shove up into a seated position.Stupid idiot. You’re making life harder than it needs to be. And it’s already hard enough.
I stare over at my desk, where the last bear my mother ever gave me sits. It’s a small bean-stuffed bear that’s tie-dyed with a peace sign over its heart. Because she wants me to remember she’s finally at peace. Or for me to find peace—something that currently feels impossible. My chest aches like someone took a machine gun to it. Every time I think one wound has healed, I find another.
Walking down the hall, even though her bedroom door is closed (because between her treatments and Gunnar’s insane surgical schedule, it made more sense for them to sleep in separate rooms) I can’t pass by it without thinking of her.
Everywhere I look in the house, I still see her. Reaching for my keys, I’ll spot her key ring. Her favorite blanket is still draped over the recliner in the living room. Even though she isn’t here, she’s still everywhere.
I stare at the bear next to my computer as my eyes blur, but Gunnar’s warning call up the stairs snaps me out of it.
“Daisy! Get up and shower or I’ll hose you down myself!”
God, that would be fun. I imagine Gunnar in the backyard grass next to the pool, spraying me down with the hose as I squeal, running away in my bikini.Would he tackle me?
No, Daise. Empty threat,I tell myself.Empty threat. He doesn’t mean what you want him to mean. He’s not going to walk up here and strip you bare, telling you it’s all going to be alright and kiss away all your tears, making you forget about everything by using his mouth to give you orgasm after orgasm. You’re a stupid little girl with a crush.
I shove myself off the mattress and stomp over the miniature mountain of all my bedsheets, which Gunnar dumped unceremoniously across my floor.
In the shower under the hot spray of water, I try to clear my head and get myself ready for the day. I’m nervous though.
I skipped the first semester of college to stay with my mom. She’d spiraled quickly after my high school graduation, and we’d known we didn’t have much time left. While I don’t regret that choice—I treasure the memories of afternoons spent playing cards or just holding her hand when cards were no longer possible—now, I don’t know what to expect from college. All my friends will know what they’re doing. Have a routine.
What if I feel like the odd girl out?
I wish I could smoke a joint to relax, but Gunnar is all about that “the body is a temple” mindset. He let Mom have them for her pain but if he ever found me with one, I’m sure he’d go ballistic.
He’s got a real bossy streak—always trying to force a jacket on me before I step outside in case it gets cold, always slipping vitamin water hydration powder packets into my purse so I have them if I need them. What’s odd is how much I like it. When Mom was sick, I had to do laundry, make chicken nuggets if I wanted something to eat, think of everything she couldn’t. But Gunnar just takes care of me. He’s always thinking ahead, trying to make sure I have what I need. He makes me feel … safe.
And God, do I love the expression he gets on his face when I challenge him. When I talk back. Fuck. That domineering side is so hot … no. No. New train of thought.My mind slides to a tangential topic, one I thought of before but have never solved.
I wonder why he never got married before … he’s hot. Even Violet says so, and she’s the pickiest of my friends.
Tall, with dark hair he keeps short and crisp on the sides like he’s in the military, he’s got these huge shoulders that make him look more like some barbarian than a surgeon. His brown eyes are lined with the kind of long, straight lashes most women would kill for. And I love the crinkles that form around them when he smiles. His hair is speckled gray on the sides, but that only seems to add to his appeal. The first time I saw him, I nearly swooned. When he’d bantered back after I teased him, the excited adrenaline rush I’d gotten—to this day all I have to do is recall that meeting and I end up with a dreamy smile on my face.
How is Gunnar so perfect?
He’s just…so intimidating and in control. He has it together when I always feel like I’m one step away from falling apart. Maybe that’s part of the attraction—the fantasy. I want him to swoop in and save me from myself. Wrap those massive arms around me and just pull me back from the brink of disaster. Use his hands to move down my body—the way my own right hand is doing now.
I skate my fingers down my belly as I lean back and let the hot water sizzle along my skin—I love taking nearly scalding showers.
God, what would his huge hands feel like? Those fingertips of his are almost twice the size of mine. And his control—I can tell by the way he does everything from folding laundry to cutting his steak—every movement counts. Once he learned my body, and how I like small little circles over my clit … I’m certain he’d get it right every single time. His surgeon’s hands are precision instruments, after all.
