The Apple Tree (Sunday Morning, #2) (101)

“Thank you,” I said with a face-splitting grin.

“For this morning?” He was a relentless flirt.

“I’m pretty sure it is you who should be thanking me for this morning, but I meant thank you for not leaving me behind ten years ago when I was newly sober, stupid as the day was long, and so stubborn because—”

“Because you were hot for teacher.”

“Stop.” I giggled, giving him a playful shove. “You’re letting me spread my wings because you know the chances of finding someone who thinks you’re irresistible despite your weird love for arithmetic is slim to none.”

“Slim to none is not a real statistic, baby.”

I shook my head, brushing past him. “You make my job so easy by always proving my point.” I retrieved my spatula and transferred the last batch of cookies from the baking sheet to the display tray.

When Kyle didn’t say any more, I glanced over at him, and he had that smile, the one he always gave me before he kissed me.

“What?” I asked, blushing because he still had that effect on me.

“I love that you’ll never stop taking my breath away. And when I’m old and on my deathbed, I’m going to give you this smile with my last breath, and doing so will be the greatest honor of my life.”





If you couldn’t get enough of Eve and Kyle’s story, you won’t want to miss her sister Gabby’s friends-to-lovers college romance in A Good Book.





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SNEAK PEEK A PLACE WITHOUT YOU





CHAPTER ONE





Read Today

Don’t sweat it. Everything is temporary.

I stare at the words on my thoroughly dented metal water bottle as I wait for my dad in the crowded, three-star hotel lobby filled with music enthusiasts. This will be the most epic three days I’ve ever had with my dad, and we’ve had a lot.

“Where are you?” I answer my phone, picking at the frayed hem to my high-waisted cutoffs accompanying my red crop top and tons of beaded bracelets, necklaces, and dangly earrings.

“Sweetheart, I’m still at home. I think I ate some bad sushi last night, and since then I’ve been praying to the porcelain god. I’m afraid I can’t go. Can you still get back home? Has the plane left?”

“Wait. What? You’re not coming?” His home in Oceanside, California is only a two-and-a-half-hour drive to our hotel in Indio. He has to make it.

“Henna, I’m drenched from a cold sweat, painful stomach cramps have crippled me, and I’m not sure I can make it to the bathroom without shitting my pants, let alone spend hours in the car. I’m so incredibly sorry.”

“Oh, Dad … I’m sorry. That’s awful.” And gross. I drop down onto a chair that a gentleman vacated when his wife arrived with their key cards.

“Next year. I promise. No sushi.” He tries to laugh, but all I can hear is the physical strain and weakness in his voice. “I’ll fly you out in a week or two, and we’ll do something else before school ends. Then we’ll have two weeks on the beach together this summer.”

I nod to myself, biting on my gray painted thumbnail to channel my disappointment into something more sympathetic. “That’s fine. I’ll send you video and some photos.”

“Henna, you have to go back to Colorado. You can’t be at Coachella alone. It’s not safe for a young girl like you to be there without a chaperone.”

“Dad, I’m an adult. It’s a music festival. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re eighteen. That’s not really an adult.”

“I’ll be smart.”

“Still. The answer is no.”

“Mom sent …” I stop myself. General Mitchell Lane is not as free-spirited as the mother of his child. Something tells me that the stock of condoms my mom sent with me is not going to comfort him.

“Mom sent what? A bodyguard?”

“Not exactly.” I wrinkle my nose.

“Then get back on that plane and go home. Okay?”

I shake my head. It’s Coachella. The lineup is so sick. I could die just thinking about it. There’s no way in hell I am going back home before the weekend is over. “Okay. I’ll go home.”

In three days.

“Thank you, Henna. And again … I’m so sorry.”

“No apologies. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. Love you.”

“Love you too.”





There are two groups of people: those who love Coachella and those who have no clue what they are missing. I belong to the first group.

Henna: You’re the coolest mom ever, right?





I grin, swiping out of my messenger screen to order a ride as I wait outside the hotel. Sushi-sick dad cancelled our reservation. Not cool.

Juni: Your dad just called me.





Juni … because my mom is too cool to be lumped into the “mom” group. So I call her Juni.