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

by Liana Cincotti

For the hopeless, and hopeful, romantics who don’t know they’re noticed in a crowded room.

Levi was the man that women wrote their romance novels about, while guys like Ethan were shadow replicas of them in real life.

“If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?” He looked at me like he truly wanted to know, like my answer would mean something. There was always this sense of comforting safety in his voice. It was safe to tell the truth. So I did, even if it felt like telling your enemy where you hid your knives. “Love,” I exhaled; that answer had been as easy as drinking water. It existed in all of my daydreams. “I want an all-consuming love. Not one that suffocates, but one that makes me so thankful that my chest feels physically overwhelmed with emotion. To have this silent, unspoken communication with a person through touch and gazes.” I let out a tired breath. “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.”

And suddenly, I fell

And my head hit the floor, *bonk*