Page 47 of Ride By Your Side

“It’sCriminal Minds,” she says as her eyes casually drift to the screen as well.

“You and your murder shit,” I say, shaking my head and giving Bubs one final pat before pushing myself off the back of the couch.

“You should really give it more of a chance. It’s actually pretty fascinating, and as an added bonus, I’m now an expert on hownotto get murdered.”

“That, or now you know how to commit a murder and get away with it,” I counter as I head toward the kitchen, reach into the fridge, and pull out a bottle of water.

“You know,” she says, turning to face me, “statistically, they say that 40% of murders are committed by a spouse or intimate partner, so maybeyoudo need to worry.”

I twist the cap off the bottle with a pop. “I’m starting to thinkyou couldpull off a murder and get away with it. You’ve got that sweet, innocent face, and somehow, you’ve been getting away with crazy shit for years. Honestly, the fact that you’re still one of the most beloved people in this town is either a miracle orproof that you’ve mastered some kind of witchy voodoo magic and have us all under your spell.”

“Exactly,” she says with a sugary-sweet smile. “You think pushing everyone away with your whole ‘Broody Bennett’ routine is keeping you safe, but let’s be real—if a murder went down around us, everyone would totally be side-eyeing you. Meanwhile, I’d be the innocent victim in all of this.”

“You’re diabolical.” I chuckle before bringing the bottle to my lips and taking a sip as she returns her smug grin toward the television.

“Have you had dinner yet?” I finally ask, my stomach releasing a soft growl as I realize I haven’t had a moment to grab a bite or have any sort of snack since Blair stopped by my shop earlier this afternoon.

“Kind of. I’ve mostly just been grazing and snacking on crackers, cheese, and grapes—you know, the whole ‘girl dinner’ thing,” she admits, her eyes remaining fixed on her creepy-ass show.

“That’s it? Sorry, princess, but that doesn’t count. I’m going to make you a proper dinner.”

“No, it’s fine. You’re already hooking me up with a place to live. You don’t need to make me food, too.”

“Why not?” I ask, reaching into the cupboard as I pull out a pan. “I’m already making something for myself, and adding an extra serving isn’t going to create any additional work.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, clearly conflicted. “I don’t want to put you out.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I felt put out or didn’t want to do it,” I promise, turning to grab some ingredients out of the fridge.

Veronica shrugs off the blanket and strolls toward the kitchen, casually leaning against the doorframe. “Anything I can do to help? And fair warning: I’m a disaster in the kitchen, but I am willing to try.”

“How are you at chopping vegetables?” I ask, assuming it’s an easy enough job that’s usually pretty hard to mess up. Well, other than the possibility of uneven cuts or cutting herself, but I’m not overly concerned about that. She is a grown woman, after all. How bad could she truly be?

“I’m okay at it,” she says, brushing a piece of her chestnut-colored hair behind her ear before moving toward the sink to wash her hands.

“Well, then, there we go.” I nod, setting her up with a small station of a cutting board, a knife, and the various vegetables that need chopping.

“I can only half-guarantee, though, that I won’t end up cutting myself.”

“Well, as long as you don’t bleed on the veggies, we’re good,” I joke, keeping my tone light. Beyond my humor, though, I can tell she’s worried. She’s strangely tense—shoulders stiff, jaw set—and the last thing I want is for her to feel on edge. We’re just making dinner. It's not like we’re performing brain surgery here.

“Well, how about this? If I do cut myself and bleed, I promise not to get any on your precious vegetables,” she offers, the workings of a smile playing on her lips, some of her nerves thankfully seeming to evaporate.

“Perfect. That’s all I ask,” I chuckle as she gets into place and starts cutting while I work on seasoning the chicken.

“Yeah, unfortunately, my work in the kitchen was one of Pete’s least favorite things about me. He always said it wasn’t very ‘wifey’ of me, since whenever I tried to cook, it usually ended up undercooked, over-seasoned, or burnt to a crisp. I’m kind of a disaster in the kitchen.”

My hands involuntarily clench into fists, my body visibly tensing. What a fucking asshole. “Not very wifey?” I ask, repeating her line. “What was he looking for, a wife or a maid?”

She lets out a less-than-amused laugh. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure,” she admits as she continues to chop. “All I know is that I never measured up, no matter how hard I tried.”

“Well, Pete is a fucking idiot, so who cares what he wanted? He’s someone else’s problem now,” I say, trying to remind myself of this as well, since right now I’d love nothing more than to give that asshole a piece of my mind.

“I suppose so,” she muses, clearly lost in thought as I glance over at her.

My eyes go wide, and it suddenly makes perfect sense why she had mentioned being hopeless in the kitchen. Not only are her chops incredibly uneven, but she looks like she’s about to slice off a finger.

“Shit, Vee,” I say, rushing over and pulling the knife out of her hand.

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