Page 1 of Back Seat Baby

Chapter 1

Becca

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. He’s just as agitated as me—because of me—and he rips off his Salt Life baseball cap, which is hilarious considering we don’t live anywhere near salt water, then shoves his hand through his sandy-blond hair that matches mine. “You seriously expect us to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? You’ve seen Samir. He’s fucking huge!”

“Language!” Mom snaps, and I bite back the next round of expletives, but only because she’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, and I don’t want to upset them with my raised voice. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—”

I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jam-packed with the boxes of fragiles and valuables that Mom is worried will get damaged in the moving trailer hitched to the back.

“This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage Fleetwood Mac T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my step-brother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!”

Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me.

“You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed.

Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger.

“Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically and huffs, fluttering the strands of her black hair that have fallen out of her braid over her rich, dark brown, kohl-lined eyes.

Fair point. I don’t want to do that either. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed.

I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. I even get excited dreaming about having a few kids as sweet as they are of my own. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight…Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Mom and Dad aren’t sure, either, seeing as they both grimace at each other.

Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been all morning when Dad pulled out the second-row bucket seats and stored them in the trailer, then arranged and rearranged moving boxes in the Tahoe like Tetris, trying to grant us as much room as possible in the back, which is basically nil. Dad gives me an apologetic smile while wiping away the sweat that trickles down his forehead as Samir folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in first, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt.

His stupid T-shirt is a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did instead of going literally anywhere else that isn’t near me. Since we’re both going to UA at the end of summer, our parents decided to relocate to Tuscon so we can save money by continuing to live with them instead of in the dorms, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years—or until I get a job that pays enough for me to move out into an apartment—instead of only having to see him occasionally during the holidays.

Fuck my life.

I have to climb over him, bumping my head on the ceiling, when he makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him since only one of my ass cheeks actually fits on the seat leftover between his hip and the boxes already stacked on the seat to my right. They block the back window, so I can’t even look out of it to watch the passing landscapes as we drive. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front.

Double fuck my life.

The next two days are going to be hell.

* * *

It only takes thirty-five minutes into the drive for me to start losing feeling in my right ass cheek with all of my weight resting on it as I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along, always getting into terrible squabbles, as our parents call it, after his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married in one of the most beautiful ceremonies I’ve ever witnessed.

After their honeymoon, they moved us into a new house like we were one big happy family when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion.

But being forced to spend the next two days half on top of Asshole Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be one of the sweetest women in the world—seriously, Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is only a fraction of what we’ll get if she has to deal with us after the stress of traveling with the twins.

I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. No comfortable angle I can find in this hell on wheels. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest.

“What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap without raising my voice and ruining our temporary cease-fire. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. It’s weird and a little unsettling since he hates me so much.

Samir groans and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Goddamnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach, harder this time. My elbow connects with a wall of muscle, sending a sharp jolt up my arm.

I choke, and my eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large, warm hand around the front of my throat and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. Thankfully, he’s not cutting off my air supply, but it’s enough to hold me firmly in place.

“I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough shit,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your damn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He relaxes his grip around my throat by a fraction when I try to nod. Satisfied by my response, he finally drops his hand, and I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest.

It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time.

Chapter 2

Becca

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