Page 16 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

He owes me.

I nod, eyeing the row of T-shirts.He owes me a lot.

Without thinking, I strip off my own sleep shirt and pull on Cole’s. The fabric is cool and comforting against my skin. It hangs loose, a soft, oversized cocoon that smells like home—or, at least, what I imagine home might smell like if my home was inhabited by a racecar driver with a penchant for danger and a smile so bright that it rivals the stars.

I glance at myself in the mirror, my reflection a tangle of messy hair, sleep-deprived eyes, and Cole’s T-shirt that hangs to mid-thigh, leaving my legs bare. Yep, I’m a hot mess.

Seriously, Lola, what are you doing?

The answer, of course, is taking what I deserve. At the very least, Cole owes me a shirt I can ruin. Besides, sharing clothes is something couples do—even fake ones.

I think.

Hell, I don’t know. I need to clear my head. And the only way I know how to do that is with a wrench in my hand and the comforting hum of an engine in my ears.

Cole’s house is silent, the kind of stillness that only comes before dawn. As I creep down the stairs, my bare feet silent against the polished concrete, I half expect an alarm to blare and a security system to lock me in this sterile palace until Cole decides my fate.

But nothing comes.

Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic crash of the waves against the beach outside. I walk across thebreezeway—yes, the breezeway—to his state-of-the-art garage. Guess the one attached to the house is just for show.

The garage door, a massive slab of steel and technology, looms before me. There’s a keypad, and before I can chicken out, my fingers fly across the buttons, punching in the code Cole had given me during his palace tour.

The door rumbles open, revealing a car lover’s paradise. Tool chests gleam under the lights, shelves are stacked with neatly labeled containers, and the air hangs thick with the scent of motor oil, tire rubber, and possibility.

And there, in the center of it all, is Eleanor.

Our Charger.

Bathed in the soft glow of several overhead lights, she looks more like a work of art than a machine. My heart aches with bittersweet longing as a jumble of memories and regrets come flooding back.He brought her home.

Without thinking, I hit the button for the stereo, the garage instantly filling with the gritty roar of Led Zeppelin. Cole had gotten me hooked on classic rock back in high school, and the familiar chords are like a lifeline, a bridge back to a time when things were simpler, when our biggest worry was a blown head gasket or a missed curfew.

I crank up the volume, letting the music wash over me as my body moves instinctively to the beat. I needed this. I needed the feel of tools in my hand, the satisfying click of a socket wrench as I work up a sweat.

Working on Eleanor has always been my escape, my way of silencing the noise in my head. And right now, that noise is a cacophony of doubt, fear, and the undeniable, terrifying pull I still felt toward the man whose house I am currently occupying.

I’ve tried to hate Cole, and most days, I succeed. But then I remember before it all went to shit, and I can’t help but smile atthe memories of the boy who used to share his last Red Bull with me.

It was a terrible problem, and I had hoped dating Chad would have fixed it. I guess it did, to some degree. I loved Chad the best I could, but I never stopped thinking about Cole. I guess, in a sense, Chad was justified in dumping me. Not in the way he did it, but he was right, it was never going to work out. Because no matter what I think I want, life won’t allow it.

Hours melt away as I work on Eleanor, losing myself in the familiar ritual of cleaning, adjusting, and coaxing a machine back to life. She’s always been more than just a car; she’s a symbol of everything Cole and I had once shared. And everything we’d lost.

My hand moves on instinct, guided by years of experience and the muscle memory of a thousand shared hours in his dad’s garage back in high school.

I don’t even look up when the garage floods with the harsh glare of the rising sun, too lost in the task at hand, the rhythmic whir of the electric sander drowning out the world outside.

“Well, well, well,” a voice drawls from the doorway. “Who do we have here?”

I freeze, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. Slowly, I straighten, turning to face the intruder. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the morning light, is Cole and, who I’d venture to guess are his teammates.

They are all staring at me, their expressions a mixture of surprise and amusement. And then I remember what I’m wearing: Cole’s T-shirt, which had ridden up during my impromptu dance session, and what can only be described as a pair of very tiny panties.

My cheeks burn with a heat that has nothing to do with the Florida sun.

A blonde-haired guy with a charismatic smile takes a step forward, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Well, sugar, if I’d known you’d be here, I’d arrived a whole lot earlier.” He winks. “I like working in my pajamas, too.”

Before I can stammer out a response, Cole steps forward, his expression closed-off and unreadable.

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