“How many loves do you get in a lifetime?” She is a beautiful, affluent, self-involved, and mildly neurotic London socialite. He is Britain’s most photographed bad boy who broke her heart. Magnolia Parks and BJ Ballentine are meant to be, and everyone knows it. She dates other people to keep him at bay; he sleeps with other girls to get back at her for it. But at the end of every sad endeavor to get over one another, it’s still each other they crawl back to. But now their dysfunction is catching up with them, pulling at their seams and fraying the world they’ve built; a world where neither has ever let the other go completely. As the cracks start to show and secrets begin to surface, Magnolia and BJ are finally forced to face the formidable question they’ve been avoiding all their lives: How many loves do you really get in a lifetime? READERS LOVE MAGNOLIA PARKS "If Gossip Girl and Made in Chelsea had a baby, it would be this book." (FIVE STARS) "Magnolia and BJ have embedded themselves into my DNA." (FIVE STARS) "This book gave drama, love triangles, toxicity, chaos and I ate up every single moment." (FIVE STARS) "TikTok made me do it, 1000% lived up to the hype." (FIVE STARS) "Hands down the most emotional romance book I have ever read and therefore my favourite" (FIVE STARS) Jessa Hastings is an Australian native who now lives in Southern California with her husband, two children, her beautiful, clingy dog, and two cats. She’s quite a bad sleeper but hopes this won’t be her lot in life forever; she has a busy brain, cannot do her hair to save her life, and has some intense anxieties about certain foods mixing or touching. Magnolia Parks was her debut novel and she is grateful for and delighted by all the girls who yell at her on the internet on a daily basis regarding this novel. She hopes they know they changed her life by loving her imaginary friends. ONE Magnolia "I like this." He tugs on my dress, coming up behind me. Black, Amiri Thrasher jeans (extra-torn knees, obviously), black Vans and the black and white raglan tee from Givenchy. I stare at my reflection in his bedroom mirror. Tilt my head, squint my eyes and pretend like I'm the only girl who's been in here lately. I make sure the necklace with his ring on it is tucked under and away where no one but me and probably he, later, can see it, then flatten the Peter Pan collar of the red, blue and white floral, satin jacquard dress. "Miu Miu," I tell him, catching his eye in the mirror. I love his eyes. He nods coolly. "Slept with a Miu Miu model last week." I hate his eyes. I glare over at him for a second, swallow heavy to compose myself before smiling carefree. "I don't care." Our eyes lock and hold and I don't just hate his eyes but all of him for a second-for knowing me how he knows me, for seeing through everything I say, for doing that with anyone but me. He shrugs indifferently. He, being BJ Ballentine, my first . . . everything, really. Love, time, heartbreak. He's the boy with the golden hair and the golden eyes even though his hair is brown, and his eyes are green, the most beautiful boy in all of London they say-and probably I agree. On his good days. But why am I explaining him to you? You already know who he is. "I know you don't care." He runs his tongue over his teeth absentmindedly. He does that when he's annoyed and I can tell he's annoyed, but it's just for a second because then his eyes soften like they always do for me. "You had a boyfriend at the time, Parks-" He looks for my eyes but I don't let him find them because I like to make him think he has to work for my attention. "Right." I blink as I tell him again: "I don't care." "Yeah," he sighs, fake-bored. "Shields up, right?" he says, under his breath. That's a thing that the boys say to each other when they see my heart switch gears. He gives me another look because he knows that I'm lying, and our hearts have a Mexican stand-off with our eyes. I miss you, I blink in Morse code. I still love you, say the turned-down edges of his perfect mouth. Fairly top heavy, like somehow it always manages to get stung by bees. Once upon a time, he balanced my whole heart atop that lip. "When, anyway?" I ask as I turn on my heel and face him, grabbing his wrist to cuff the sleeves of his black denim patch scarves trucker jacket, also from Amiri, without his permission. I can feel his eyes on me, watching me, waiting for me to look up and when I do, it hurts in the centre of me like it always does when our eyes catch. A fish back in water. A sore relief. "What?" Beej asks, brows low, watching me closely. I tug on the centre of his jacket, trying to work out if it'd look better buttoned or not. I do the buttons up. He shifts his head, still looking for my eyes and when I don't offer them, he lifts my chin up to face him, holding it between his thumb and his index finger. The physical distance between us is meagre, but s