The Apple Tree (Sunday Morning, #2) (103)

“Well, I despise rules, but you must share your rules anyway.”

“Never flirt with someone who is not sober.” He stares out his window like his rule is the end of our friendly conversation.

“Sober? Dude, this is as sober as I get.” Leaning forward, I shove down the waist of my shorts in back, exposing a long L-shaped scar.

He glances over, forehead wrinkled.

“If I sit too long or stand too long or do anything too long, life kinda sucks. But a little high can go a long way with making said life a lot less sucky.”

Sitting back, I exhale. Sexy stranger seems at a loss for words.

“Tell me, tech guy, do you have a name?”

The driver stops at the crowded entrance.

“Thank you,” we say while getting out of the car.

Digging out my Coachella bracelet and All-Access Pass, I slip on my backpack and make several failed attempts to put the bracelet on my wrist amongst the other gazillion bracelets on my arms.

Long, tan fingers take over, attaching it for me. I look up and go all gooey inside at how amazing my ride-sharing stranger looks with the wind messing up his surfer hair.

“All-Access Pass. Lucky girl.”

I nod without elaborating. Instead, I just stare at his eyes because they are worthy of my attention.

“Bodhi.” He grins. “My name is Bodhi.”

“Bodie? Like the ghost town in California?”

“Bodhi like the sacred fig tree.”

“Shut. Up.” My eyes pop out of my head. “For real? Your name is Bodhi. B.O.D.H.I?”

He grins, but I can’t tell if it’s a duh-that’s-just-what-I-said grin or a you’re-so-gullible grin.

“Henna and Bodhi. It’s so fucking poetic. Now comes the part where I inform you that we will marry some day and live in a small house nestled into the cliffside of Italy, overlooking the Amalfi coast, where we’ll have terraced groves of lemon trees, olive trees … and tomatoes. I love tomatoes.”

Bodhi’s brows inch up his forehead.

“And before you say no and get all weird on me, I’m not suggesting we do this right away. I have some serious traveling to do before settling into one location with a hot guy.” A long two-second delay later, I realize what I’ve just said.

Amusement grows along his mouth like the sun sliding up the horizon in the early morning, giving me the brightest smile. I slip on my sunglasses. Bodhi and the desert sun are a bit too intense, even for me.

“Henna, are you flirting with me?”

A group of girls gather around us and snap a few photos of me before blending back into the sea of humans funneling toward the entrance. Bodhi gives them a narrow-eyed look and shifts his gaze to me for an explanation.

I ignore the girls and his curiosity. “Yes, Bodhi, I’m shamelessly, unapologetically, working-my-ass-off flirting with you. The universe has spoken. We can’t ignore the universe.”

A bold laugh escapes him. “Fate?”

“Fate? No. Fate is nothing more than another word for happiness. We’re more than fate. We sound like something undeniable—Romeo and Juliet, Johnny and June, Beyoncè and Jay Z … Henna and Bodhi.”

His parents have to be awesome like mine. I can’t wait to meet them.

Glancing at his watch, he gives me that goodbye smile that should be outlawed. “Whatever strain of weed you’re on is clearly a good one. Don’t forget sunscreen, a hat, and if you don’t want a nasty cough by Monday, you should cover your nose and mouth with a bandana or scarf.”

“Like … are you kidding me? Did you just give me a parental speech?”

“I have to go.”

“How will I find you?”

He starts to walk toward the far entrance, tossing me a flirty grin over his shoulder. “Fate. Right?”

“Fate. Schmate. Now you’re mocking me. Not cool, bae, not even a little.”

I wait for him to look back at me one more time. I wait … and wait …

Yes!

As the crowd engulfs him from twenty yards away, he gives me one last glance.

Dead. I’m dead because that’s the guy I’m going to marry. Henna and Bodhi—perfection! After taking a long swig of water, I stare at the words on my water bottle again.

Don’t sweat it. Everything is temporary.

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