Romantic Picnic Quotes

Look, Simon, Luke thinks you should tell your mom. You can't hide it from her forever." "I can damn well try." "Think about Luke," she said desperately. "You can still live a normal life." "And what about us? Do you want a vampire boyfriend?" He laughed bitterly. "Because I foresee many romantic picnics in our future. You, drinking a virgin pina colada. Me, drinking the blood of a virgin.

He'd written me up a proposal of why dating him was a sound decision. It had included things like "I'll give up cigarettes unless I really, really need one" and "I'll unleash romantic surprises every week, such as: an impromptu picnic, roses, or a trip to Paris—but not actually any of those things because now they're not surprises.

And what about us? Do you want a vampire boyfriend?" He laughed bitterly. "Because I forsee many romantic picnics in our future. You, drinking a virgin piña colada. Me, drinking the blood of a virgin.

I foresee many romantic picnics in our future. You drinking a virgin pina colada. Me drinking the blood of a virgin." (Simon)

There was something horribly depressing, she felt, about watching the weather report. That life could be planned like the perfect summer picnic drained it of spontaneity.

Piper went a little crazy. She cried out with relief and dove straight into the water. What was she thinking? She didn't take a rope or a life vest or anything. But at the moment, she was just so happy that she paddled over to Leo and kissed him on the cheek, which kind of surprised him. "Miss me?" Leo laughed. Piper was suddenly furious. "Where were you? How are you guys alive?" "Long story," he said. A picnic basket bobbed to the surface next to him. "Want a brownie?

I want to take long romantic walks up your arm with my lips. I wanna picnic on the arc of your neck and sneak a bottle of wine in a thermos with you and get stoned somewhere on the mossy side of your ribs.

I had a dream about you. Flowers were overflowing in the cemetery, so we decided to have a picnic there. You brought apple pie, and I brought my Aunt Mildred, who’d been dead for some time and I just hadn’t gotten around to disposing of her body. I thought you’d think me both efficient and romantic, but it turns out you didn’t. You only saw the romantic side of my action.

I’d eat a picnic in Hades with him.

Now we lie here, a decapitated generation, our child-like names vanishing on tombstones, can't you see? Once there was Rock 'n' Roll, freedom of speech, baroque picnics on miraculous boats, there was resurrection on romantic lakes, there were melting kisses under golden trees, there was ticking laughter, clicking metaphors, there were wine and poetic sex, beauty...

Augustus was amazing, but he’d overdone everything at the picnic, right down to the sandwiches that were metaphorically resonant but tasted terrible and the memorized soliloquy that prevented conversation. It all felt Romantic, but not romantic.

Because I forsee many romantic picnics in our future. You, drinking a Virgin Piña colada. Me, drinking the blood of a virgin.

The picture would remind Oliver of the morning when I first spoke out. Or of the day when we rode by the berm pretending not to notice it. Or of that day we'd decided to picnic there and had vowed not to touch each other, the better to enjoy lying in bed together the same afternoon. I wanted him to have the picture before his eyes for all time, his whole life, in front of his desk, of his bed, everywhere. Nail it everywhere you go, I thought.

But love’s not just the drug; it’s also the dealer. Love wants love in return, am I right, Olly? Like drugs, the highs look divine, and I envy the users. But when the side effects kick in—jealousy, the rages, grief, I think, Count me out. Elizabethans equated romantic love with insanity. Buddhists view it as a brat throwing a tantrum at the picnic of the calm mind.

Human beings are walking bundles of cravings. Cravings for food, water, shelter, warmth; sex and companionship; status, a tribe to belong to; kicks, control, purpose; and so on, all the way down toe chocolate-brown bathroom suites. Love is one way to satisfy some of these cravings. But love's not just the drug; it's also the dealer. Love wants love in return. Like drugs, the highs look divine, and I envy the users. But when the side effects kick in - jealousy, the rages, grief, I think: Count me out. Elizabethans equated romantic love with insanity, Buddhists view it as a brat throwing a tantrum at the picnic of the calm mind.

If Pemberley were a food, it would be a cherry tart, best consumed from a picnic basket.

The road trip would have been romantic, cathartic maybe, to feel each mile drop behind them, to watch the landscape change and change again, to eat hamburgers in sticky diners and make picnics from sad grocery stores and take over motels so beaten they could afford to stay two to a room and everyone could have his own bed.

What’s the, like, symbol, for five years? Paper?” “Paper is first year,” I said. At the end of Year One’s unexpectedly wrenching treasure hunt, Amy presented me with a set of posh stationery, my initials embossed at the top, the paper so creamy I expected my fingers to come away moist. In return, I’d presented my wife with a bright red dime-store paper kite, picturing the park, picnics, warm summer gusts. Neither of us liked our presents; we’d each have preferred the other’s. It was a reverse O. Henry. “Silver?” guessed Go. “Bronze? Scrimshaw? Help me out.” “Wood,” I said. “There’s no romantic present for wood.” At the other end of the bar, Sue neatly folded her newspaper and left it on the bartop with her empty mug and a five-dollar bill. We all exchanged silent smiles as she walked out. “I got it,” Go said. “Go home, fuck her brains out, then smack her with your penis and scream, ‘There’s some wood for you, bitch!’ 

At her feet, a luminous path lit the way through the grassy field. It was made entirely from glow sticks; each of the radiant lights had been painstakingly set into the ground at perfect intervals, tracing a curved trail that shone through the darkness. Apparently, Jay had been busy. Near the water’s edge, at the end of the iridescent pathway and beneath a stand of trees, Jay had set up more than just a picnic. He had created a retreat, an oasis for the two of them. Violet shook her head, unable to find the words to speak. He led her closer, and Violet followed, amazed. Jay had hung more of the luminous glow sticks from the low-hanging branches, so they dangled overhead. They drifted and swayed in the breeze that blew up from the lake. Beneath the natural canopy of limbs, he had set up two folding lounge chairs and covered them with pillows and blankets. “I’d planned to use candles, but the wind would’ve blown ‘em out, so I had to improvise.” “Seriously, Jay? This is amazing.” Violet felt awed. She couldn’t imagine how long it must have taken him. “I’m glad you like it.” He led her to one of the chairs and drew her down until she was sitting before he started unpacking the cooler. She half-expected him to pull out a jar of Beluga caviar, some fancy French cheeses, and Dom Perignon champagne. Maybe even a cluster of grapes to feed to her…one at a time. So when he started laying out their picnic, Violet laughed. Instead of expensive fish eggs and stinky cheeses, Jay had packed Daritos and chicken soft tacos-Violet’s favorites. And instead of grapes, he brought Oreos. He knew her way too well. Violet grinned as he pulled out two clear plastic cups and a bottle of sparkling cider. She giggled. “What? No champagne?” He shrugged, pouring a little of the bubbling apple juice into each of the flimsy cups. “I sorta thought that a DUI might ruin the mood.” He lifted his cup and clinked-or rather, tapped-it against hers. “Cheers.” He watched her closely as she took a sip. For several moments, they were silent. The lights swayed above them, creating shadows that danced over them. The park was peaceful, asleep, as the lake’s waters lapped the shore. Across from them, lights from the houses along the water’s edge cast rippling reflections on the shuddering surface. All of these things transformed the ordinary park into a romantic winter rendezvous.

Growing up where she did, Beatrix had developed a romantic and adventurous nature, and she had no outlet for it any more. The happiest times I can remember spending with them were when we drove out - twice, I think - to the Long Mynd for a picnic. Roger had long since traded in his motorbike and scraped together enough money to buy a second-hand Morris Minor. Somehow we all squeezed into this (I seem to recall sitting in the front passenger seat, Beatrix sitting behind me with the baby on her lap) and drove out for the afternoon to those wonderful Shropshire hills. I wonder if you have ever walked on them yourself, Imogen. They are part of your story, you know. So many things have changed, changed beyond recognition, in the almost sixty years since the time I'm now recalling, but the Long Mynd is not one of them. In the last few months I have been too ill to walk there, but I did manage to visit in the last spring, to offer what I already sensed would be my final farewells. Places like this are important to me - to all of us - because they exist outside the normal timespan. You can stand on the backbone of the Long Mynd and not know if you are in the 1940s, the 2000s, the tenth or eleventh century... It is all immaterial, all irrelevant. The gorse and the purple heather are unchanging, and so are the sheeptracks which cut through them and criss-cross them, the twisted rocky outcrops which surprise you at every turn, the warm browns of the bracken, the distant greys of the conifer plantations, tucked far away down in secretive valleys. You cannot put a price on the sense of freedom and timelessness that is granted to you there, as you stand on the high ridge beneath a flawless sky of April blue and look across at the tame beauties of the English countryside, to the east, and to the west a hint of something stranger - the beginnings of the Welsh mountains

The painting was so vibrant and alive with summertime that it seemed to fill the entire room with light. It depicted a small town on a summer day, and the people going about various tasks and activities. Over here was a picnic and happy children playing games, over there a postman delivering letters and chatting with a woman in curlers who was touching her hair in a way that suggested she was quite fond of the postman. Two boys in overalls and a young girl in a gingham dress were fishing by a stream beneath a big oak tree. A country church stood quietly at the end of town as if watching over all the people who would surely be sitting in its pews come Sunday morning.

So now Nathan had a new partner, who, by all accounts, was a dour old drudge with nary a daughter to his name. She’d seen Nathan in town once since then. He had not looked happy. But she was insanely happy, especially after what the doctor had hold her yesterday. With only a few days left at home, she and Freddy had dragged Jane and Oliver on a romantic picnic. So far, it wasn’t going all that well. Poor Jane darted up at every sound. Freddy’s mischievous brothers had convinced her that wild Indians might descend upon them any minute, and no amount of Freddy’s posturing with the sword could relieve her fears. Oliver was no help, either. He kept pretending to see feather headdresses behind every bush, though Maria had told him repeatedly that the only tribes in their area had left long ago. He was every bit as devilish as her cousins, who’d embraced him instantly as a man after their own heats. Aunt Rose had pronounced Oliver a smooth-tongued rogue the first time he told her how fetching she looked in her peacock bonnet. Little did she know. “Are you sure there’s a fish pond back there, Freddy?” Jane asked skeptically as Freddy led her around a deserted cabin. “Quite sure.” He puffed out his chest. “I’ve caught many a fine trout in that pond.” “More like trout bait,” Maria told Oliver, who was stretched out on the blanket beside her, reading a letter from Jarret. “I’ve never seen a fish longer than my thumb in that pond.

A fresh, uplifting mélange of Italian bergamot, mandarin, and raspberry that comprised the opening accord filled her nostrils with the carefree scents of spring. Her imagination soared with memories. The gardens of Bellerose, picnic baskets bursting with summer fruits on sunny Mediterranean beaches, summers spent on the Riviera, yacht parties, and the casino in Monte Carlo. The plain little bottle held the essence of the happy life she had known. She inhaled again, closed her eyes, and allowed her mind to wander, to visualize the images the aroma evoked. Excitement coursed through her veins. She imagined a glamorous, luxurious lifestyle of exotic locales, mysterious lovers, sandy beaches, glittering parties, elegant gowns, and precious jewels. And amid it all, sumptuous bouquets of fabulous flowers, enchanting and romantic, intense aromas of pure, bridal white jasmine and sultry tuberose, and the heady, evocative aroma of rose. Seductive spices, clove with musk and patchouli, smoothed with sandalwood and vanilla, elegant and sensual, like a lover in the night. And finally, she realized what was missing. A strong, smooth core, a warm amber blend that would provide a deep connection to the soul. Love.

I got your flowers. They’re beautiful, thank you.” A gorgeous riot of Gerber daisies and lilies in a rainbow of reds, pinks, yellows and oranges. “Welcome. Bet Duncan loved sending one of his guys out to pick them up for me.” She could hear the smile in his voice, imagined the devilish twinkle in his eyes. “Oh, he did. Said it’s probably the first time in the history of WITSEC that a U.S. Marshal delivered flowers to one of their witnesses.” A low chuckle. “Well, this was a special circumstance, so they helped me out.” “I loved the card you sent with them the best though.” Proud of you. Give ‘em hell tomorrow. He’d signed it Nathan rather than Nate, which had made her smile. “I had no idea you were romantic,” she continued. “All these interesting things I’m learning about you.” She hadn’t been able to wipe the silly smile off her face after one of the security team members had knocked on her door and handed them to her with a goofy smile and a, “special delivery”. “Baby, you haven’t seen anything yet. When the trial’s done you’re gonna get all the romance you can handle, and then some.” “Really?” Now that was something for a girl to look forward to, and it sure as hell did the trick in taking her mind off her worries. “Well I’m all intrigued, because it’s been forever since I was romanced. What do you have in mind? Candlelit dinners? Going to the movies? Long walks? Lazy afternoon picnics?” “Not gonna give away my hand this early on, but I’ll take those into consideration.” “And what’s the key to your heart, by the way? I mean, other than the thing I did to you this morning.” “What thing is that? Refresh my memory,” he said, a teasing note in his voice. She smiled, enjoying the light banter. It felt good to let her worry about tomorrow go and focus on what she had to look forward to when this was all done. Being with him again, seeing her family, getting back to her life. A life that would hopefully include Nathan in a romantic capacity. “Waking you up with my mouth.” He gave a low groan. “I loved every second of it. But think simpler.” Simpler than sex? For a guy like him? “Food, then. I bet you’re a sucker for a home-cooked meal. Am I right?” He chuckled. “That works too, but it’s still not the key.” “Then what?” “You.” She blinked, her heart squeezing at the conviction behind his answer. “Me?” “Yeah, just you. And maybe bacon,” he added, a smile in his voice. He was so freaking adorable. “So you’re saying if I made and served you a BLT, you’d be putty in my hands?” Seemed hard to imagine, but okay. A masculine rumble filled her ears. “God, yeah.” She couldn’t help the sappy smile that spread across her face. “Wow, you are easy. And I can definitely arrange that.” “I can hardly wait. Will you serve it to me naked? Or maybe wearing just a frilly little apron and heels?” She smothered a laugh, but a clear image of her doing just that popped into her head, serving him the sandwich in that sexy outfit while watching his eyes go all heated. “Depends on how good you are.” “Oh, baby, I’ll be so good to you, you have no idea.

He didn’t have to tell me that. I knew Hank better than anyone else. He went out of his way not to hurt people. “And I love you even more for it. But you should know, I’m willing to be hurt because that’s what love is.” Hank stared at me out of the corners of his eyes. Clearly he was questioning my sanity. “It’s true,” I said with a firm nod. “It’s not always hot sex and romantic candlelit dinners. Or picnics in the park or fun days at the zoo. True love exists in the gaps between those moments. It’s in the arguments, where you’re so angry at each other that you may want to throw a tantrum and walk out the door, but you don’t. It lives in the hard times when one of you is sick or exhausted, and you have to carry each other for miles with no rest, and even though your body aches and you want to let go, you don’t.” “I don’t think I’ve ever known that kind of love.” He glanced at his hands in his lap. “My relationships have always been the bad kind. Where one of us gives up or gives in.” “Well, love that is worth anything isn’t like that. It blooms in the dead of winter because we have fed its soul in the spring and summer. That is what I fight for. You may not feel what I do because you lack the memories I have, but you feel something. I can see it in the way you look at me or touch me, and I can see you fighting it. Maybe because you’re afraid of hurting me or because you don’t understand what these emotions are. I don’t really know, but you should know this: Fighting it won’t make it go away, and it won’t change how our story will end. We will get married. We will grow old together. And before we breathe our last, the final words we will utter will be each other’s names.

The sun starts to sink lower over the ocean, and Zach somehow magics up a fire from driftwood and kindling. And then he brings out the marshmallows. Not a bag of mass-produced, uniform white cylinders of sugar. But two not-quite-square, hand-made, artisanal marshmallows. I look up at him. “Are you kidding me right now?” The right side of his mouth kicks up in a smirk that says I gave him exactly the reaction he was looking for. “Nope,” he says. “I asked the baker and she made these special for us. After all, I did promise you.” He grabs a forked stick and roasts them for us. When they’re perfectly golden brown and sagging off the stick, he slides it onto a graham cracker, and adds a square of chocolate. I put the entire thing in my mouth. “Ohmigod!” I murmur. “This is amazing!” “Transcendent?” he teases. “Absolutely.” I agree, licking some of the sugar off my fingers. He grabs my wrist and the next thing I know, he’s licking the sugar off my fingers. Oh God, and now I’m thinking of last night and what else he licked. As I watch, his eyes get intense; he’s thinking the same. “We can’t have sex on the beach,” I say breathlessly. “Too sandy.” “You have a one-track mind, don’t you?” he teases. “I only brought you here for the sunset.” Aaaand now I feel like an idiot. “Right,” I cough, blushing. “Well, thank you.” “But …” He adds, his mouth curving into that sexy smile that kills me. “That doesn’t mean we can’t … kiss.” His hand comes up to push a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I nod because resistance is futile. The best I can do is make light of it so he can’t see the emotion coursing through me. “I’m pretty sure it’s the law that when you drink wine and eat artisanal marshmallows on the beach, you have to kiss.” I wave vaguely toward where we left the car. “I saw it on the sign by the parking lot.” “Well, if it’s a law,” he grins. A second later, his lips find mine. He tastes like wine and sugar, and pure Zach. I sigh in pleasure. This picnic, the marshmallows—everything—just might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me. But that perfect sunset? We totally miss it. After all, there are better things to do.

The large bedroom was crammed to overflowing with family relics, and examples of the various arts in which Lady Emily had brilliantly dabbled at one time or another. Part of one wall was decorated with a romantic landscape painted on the plaster, the fourpost bed was hung with her own skilful embroidery, watercolour drawings in which a touch of genius fought and worsted an entire want of technique hung on the walls. Pottery, woodcarving, enamels, all bore witness to their owner’s insatiable desire to create. From their earliest days the Leslie children had thought of their mother as doing or making something, handling brush, pencil, needle with equal enthusiasm, coming in late to lunch with clay in her hair, devastating the drawing-room with her far-flung painting materials, taking cumbersome pieces of embroidery on picnics, disgracing everyone by a determination to paint the village cricket pavilion with scenes from the life of St Francis for which she made the gardeners pose. What Mr Leslie thought no one actually knew, for Mr Leslie had his own ways of life and rarely interfered. Once only had he been known to make a protest. In the fever of an enamelling craze, Lady Emily had a furnace put up in the service-room, thus making it extremely difficult for Gudgeon and the footman to get past, and moreover pressing the footman as her assistant when he should have been laying lunch.

Paris? Psh, lame. I'd take my babe on horseback through the mountains up to the falls. Then we'd have a picnic on top of the waterfalls. She'll be so overwhelmed by my romantic side that she'll swoon into my arms and-" " Die because she ate something you made.

I don’t know. Things like not paying attention to the little details. Or just not paying attention to me much. I don’t mind people being on their smart phones now and then, but it seemed like she was always glued to that thing. Even when we were out for what I thought was a romantic dinner or at a family gathering.” He saw Natalie glance back to the picnic area. Jacks was still on his phone.

That’s so sweet.” “So says the romance novel reader.” “You have something against romance, Callahan?” “Not at all. I have something against schmaltz.” “Schmaltz! That wasn’t schmaltz.” “Darlin’, that picnic was the epitome of schmaltz.” “All right then, Casanova. What should Harry have done to romance his lady?” Gabe stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. He linked his hands behind his head and considered the question. “The bouquet was way overdone. A single rose would be okay, or even better, whatever flower she considered her favorite. Hiring a violinist to ride behind the courting buggy ruined the whole thing.” “Now, why would you say that? It’s terribly romantic.” “You like threesomes, do you?” “What? No!” Gabe chuckled and continued, “A mountain meadow picnic was good, but a linen-draped table? Fine china? Roast duckling? No. Way too formal. Too stuffy. All you need for a romantic mountain meadow picnic is a quilt to spread on the grass and a picnic basket with finger foods. The champagne was a good idea, but it’d have been better if he’d put it to chill in the creek.” “That’s a good idea,” Nic agreed. “What about the poetry and the dancing?” “Depends on the woman, of course. If she’s into that, then yeah. Nothing’s wrong with poetry or dancing.” “What do you do for music if you’ve left the violinist back in town?” “If a guy can carry a tune at all, he can sing softly, or hum. You can dance to birdsong or music in your mind, as far as that goes.” She let that sit a minute, then said, “That’s not bad, Callahan. Not bad at all.” He

While Amanda may be considered as the “official candidate” whose breeding and background made her eminently acceptable at Court, the Prince was also conducting a stormy relationship with Anna Wallace, the daughter of a Scottish landowner whom he had met while fox hunting in November 1979. She was the latest of a long line of girlfriends, drawn for the most part from the upper reaches of the aristocracy, who had appeared on his romantic horizon. However Anna, fiery, wilful and impulsive, was temperamentally unsuitable for the regulated routine of royalty. Not for nothing was she known as “Whiplash Wallace”. Prince Charles, a man who by his own admission fell in love easily, pressed his suit even though his advisors told him that she had other boy-friends. Their relationship became so serious that, according to at least one account, he asked her to marry him. She is said to have turned him down but that rebuff did little to dampen his ardour. In May they were discovered by journalists lying on a blanket by the river Dee on the Queen’s estate at Balmoral. The Prince was furious at this intrusion into his private life and authorized his friend, Lord Tryon, who was present at the picnic to shout a four letter word at the journalists concerned.

Lately, though I wouldn't admit it to anyone, much less Emma, I plan out dates. I don't let my mind skip ahead to a predictably sexy ending but rather linger on the details of each step. Meeting her at her door, the exact way I'd greet her. A kiss on the cheek, my lips on her skin. A picnic on that hill she loves, fireflies illuminating our grilled cheese sandwiches (roasted vegetables inside, three artisanal cheeses, thyme butter).

I have one more gift for you,” Noah said, pulling out a small package, wrapped in simple Kraft paper. Opening it, Arie found an old copy of A.A. Milne’s Winne the Pooh. “It’s a first edition. I hope you’ll read it to our kids one day. You can even tell them the story about how a Princess had a picnic with Pooh and his friends at a castle on an island.” She beamed. At that very moment, she couldn’t love him more, even if she tried.