Page 7 of Ride By Your Side

“Wait,” he says, grabbing my hand to stop me, but it’s too late as it dings to let me know the payment was accepted. “I wanted to take care of this.”

I turn to face him. “I get that you feel bad for me, Bennett, but you gotta stop. I’m the one who left him, not the other way around. In fact, I’m starting to think I’d almost prefer it if you went back to hating and being annoyed at every single thing I say,” I admit, gladly reaching out for the bags as the cashier hands them over the counter. “You paying for my hotel was more than enough. Hell, putting the miles on your car is already way too much. I’m just happy that you’re here. So please, let me pay for things, too.”

That thankfully has him relenting as he follows after me. I head toward the entrance door and hold it open for him as we step outside. “Fine, but it did only feel fair, given that you just paid for the gas,” he mutters. “And for the record, you annoy me, but I wouldn’t go as far as saying I ever hated you,” he casually suggests as he heads toward the driver’s seat while I take my spot as the resident passenger princess.

“Well, you’ve never road-tripped or been forced to spend more than a day or two around me, so let’s save your opinions on how much you hate or dislike me until the end of our little adventure. There’s still plenty of time for me to change your opinion on that one,” I playfully advise as I set the bags to the side and buckle myself in.

“True, but one thing I can promise you, princess. If you spill any of that shit or stain the interior of my car, I willdefinitelyhate you.”

“Noted.”

4

Miles

AsyetanotherTaylorSwift song blares through the car’s speakers, I do my best not to groan. Veronica had told me that she didn’t want me to feel sorry for her or offer her any special treatment, but at the time, letting her pick the next playlist felt like the least I could do.

I guess I didn’t fully realize what I was signing up for. But, honestly, that’s on me. I should’ve at least suspected, since Blair’s also been obsessed with Taylor for years. The two even throw personal listening parties for every new album release—even if many of the more recent ones had to be over video calls. I guess where I really went wrong in all this was assuming that some of Blair’s more eclectic musical taste would rub off on her best friend. Blair has spent the last decade traveling with some of the biggest, most influential bands in the world—so, naturally, I thought her friend might develop a slightly more adventurous musical palette. But apparently, I was wrong.

Unfortunately, I don’t see her switching it up anytime soon as I glance over and see her singing—or rather, screaming along—toI Can Do It with a Broken Heart, her hair blowing majestically in the wind, her hands moving artistically to the melody. I’d probably find it kind of cute if it weren’t so damn annoying all at the same time.

My mood worsens when a car full of men—probably fresh off a weekend of questionable decisions in Las Vegas—slows down in the fast lane of Interstate-15 and the men start dancing and leering at her like they’re auditioning for the world’s sleaziest boy band.

She might find it amusing as she shimmies her shoulders their way, but I’m nowhere near as entertained. Lifting my foot from the pedal, I let our car slow down, forcing them to officially pass us.

The assholes aren’t the only ones disappointed as she turns to look at me, mouth open in shock, as she brushes some of her snarled strands behind her ear. “What was that for? We were having fun.” She sulks, my eyes dipping toward her pink pouty lips before I force my attention back to the road ahead.

“Those guys were probably a bunch of married assholes with nothing better to do than stare at a gorgeous woman. I did you a favor,” I assure her.

Her open mouth closes, and her lips curl into a smile. “A gorgeous woman, huh?” she smirks, nudging her elbow into my arm.

“Oh, come on. You know you’re stunning. It’s the rest of you that needs some work,” I shoot back, mostly joking, but I see the way my words land as she falls back into her seat, her excitement from earlier evaporating.

I know I shouldn’t feel bad, but I do, and I fucking hate it. Then again, I’m used to feeling this way around her. She’s always found a way to get under my skin, and while she should alreadyknow she’s not my favorite—she even pointed it out earlier—I’m also not looking to be intentionally cruel, especially when yesterday was likely one of the worst days of her entire life.

“Hey, I shouldn’t—” I start, but she interrupts.

“Oh my God, there it is! We have to stop!” she shouts.

My eyebrows furrow. “What?” I ask, turning my head to look at her. We’re in the middle of the desert—what could possibly be worth stopping for?

She rolls her eyes as if I’m the densest person in the world. “The world’s largest thermometer. We have to stop and take a picture next to it. It’s a Prescott family tradition.”

“That thing?” I ask, feeling less than impressed as I spot a giant white figure in the not-so-far distance. “That looks like some old piece of shit.”

“It is, but that’s what makes it so wonderful all at the same time. Please,” she begs, reaching out and wrapping her hands around my bicep. While I’m fully aware of the touch, she quickly seems to think better of it and folds her hands back into her lap. “Come on. We have to stop.”

I let out an annoyed breath, but once again, I find it impossible to say no to her. “Fine. We can stop. But don’t even think about somehow turning this into another excuse to grab more snacks.”

Most of the drive has been her blasting Taylor’s music, but when she wasn’t doing that, she was making her way through her collection of snacks. I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but damn, it was annoying as hell. Every time she opens a new bag, she grabs one or two pieces, pops them in her mouth like some kind of sample, then moves on to the next as if the previous one never existed.

“Party pooper,” she shoots my way, sticking out a playful tongue in my direction. Instead of being annoyed like I normally would be, I press my lips together to suppress a smile as I roll my eyes once more.

“Oh my God, was that a smile?” she asks, in mock shock.

I press my lips together even tighter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You aren’t even funny,” I say, finding it much easier to insult her. Thankfully she can see right through the sarcasm, as her smile only grows.

“Oh, I never claimed to be funny, but I just madetheBroody Bennett smile, and for me, that’s a win. In fact, I think my next road trip game is going to be seeing how many times I can break through that tough-guy facade of yours and make you smile.”

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