Page 15 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

The 1970 Charger, our high school project—our shared dream—stood bathed in the golden light, as beautiful and wild as the day we’d finished rebuilding her. I could almost smellthe faint scent of engine oil and hear the purr of the engine, a symphony of power and potential.

But as I step out of the car, my legs shaking a little, and into Cole Lawson's world, I know this rebuild isn’t going to be anything like it was in high school. Gone are the days when Cole is my best friend and I think he is the love of my life.

Cole’s gaze meets mine, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say something that will ruin the moment, but he doesn’t. He just keeps quiet, allowing me a rare, unguarded glimpse into whiskey-colored eyes. Maybe he’s thinking back on those days, too.

“Come on in. I’ll show you around,” he finally says, breaking the comfortable silence.

My heart hammers in a wild rhythm as I nod and follow him into the house. The foyer is a vast expanse of polished concrete and soaring ceilings, a minimalist temple devoid of warmth or personality. It feels less like a home and more like a very expensive showroom.

“So,” I say, my voice echoing slightly in the vast emptiness, “I see you’ve embraced the whole minimalist thing.”

“It’s…practical,” Cole says, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He looks strangely out of place in his own home, like a rogue splash of color on a stark white canvas.

“Right. Practical.” I resist the urge to point out that a padded cell is also practical if your goal is to completely erase all evidence of a personality.

He leads me through the cavernous living room, the sound of my footsteps echoing against the polished marble floor, a stark counterpoint to the sterile white that dominates the space. White leather sofas, more sculpture than furniture, stand stiffly against the walls, looking as inviting as an operating table. We pass a grand staircase, its sweeping curves crafted from marble so white it seems to glow in the dim light, a testament to thewealth and extravagance—and perhaps a touch of coldness—that permeates every inch of this house. Further on, a massive dining table, polished to a blinding sheen and set with enough silverware to host a small army, sits untouched, likely a mere decorative element in this pristine, unlived-in environment. But my gaze is drawn past it all, toward the closed door at the end of the hallway, a splash of deep mahogany against the stark white walls. He stops in front of it, his hand hovering over the ornate brass knob.

“This is you,” he clips out like showing me around is a headache.

I push open the door, bracing myself for more minimalist purgatory, but to my surprise, the room isn’t completely devoid of personality. Sure, the walls are white, the furniture sleek and modern, but there is a large window overlooking the ocean and a worn, leather armchair tucked into a corner.

“It’s… nice.” I try to sound neutral. It’s definitely a step up from Brian’s apartment.

“You can personalize it.” His gaze fixes on a spot somewhere over my shoulder. “Make it your own.”

“Right. Make it my own.” The last thing I want is to put down roots in Cole Lawson’s house, even if it is just a temporary arrangement. But the thought of adding a splash of color to this sterile environment and leaving my mark on his carefully controlled world is undeniably tempting.

“So,” Cole says, clearing his throat. “I’ll, uh, let you get settled. The bathroom’s through there. Help yourself to whatever you need.”

He hovers in the doorway, his gaze lingering on me for a beat too long.

Well, now, we certainly can’t have that.

“Thanks,” I clip out. “I think I’ll take a shower. This place reminds me too much of a jail cell. I need to wash off the bad mojo.”

And call my brother. He’s liable to think someone kidnapped me from the apartment. I already have enough bullshit to deal with. I don’t need more drama from him.

“What?”

I forgot Cole was still standing there.

I shake my head. “Never mind.” And then I slam the door in his face.

CHAPTER SIX

LOLA

It’s5:00 in the morning, and the only thing racing harder than my pulse is my mind. I tossed and turned in this ridiculously comfortable bed all freaking night. The silky sheets whispering against my skin are a constant reminder that I am in Cole freaking Lawson’s house—in his bed.

Well, not his bed, technically. The guest room bed. But even the subtle scent of his cologne, clinging to the air like a phantom caress, mocks my inability to relax.

I throw off the covers, my bare legs tangling in the sheets for a moment before I kick them free. The Florida sun hasn't even thought about rising yet, but sleep, as elusive as a win for Cole lately, had abandoned me hours ago.

Padding across the room, I yank open the closet, half expecting to find a row of perfectly pressed suits and maybe a spare tuxedo. Instead, I find a jumble of old T-shirts, faded jeans, and a worn leather jacket. I guess all his fancy clothes must be in one of the other bedroom closets. He certainly has plenty of them in this palace.

My fingers brush against a soft cotton shirt, the team logo barely visible under years of wear and tear. I pull it out, holdit to my nose, and inhale the scent of him—a mix of motor oil, sunshine, and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Cole.

This is insane. I don’t even like Cole anymore. In fact, I hate him. The bastard ruined my life and then walked away from the damage he’d caused.

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