Page 19 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

“Come here.” I pat my lap.

The team exchanges surprised glances as Lola hesitates to sit on my lap. She narrows her eyes and, with a sigh that sounds a lot like resignation, starts to sit. I pull her onto my lap, her body warm and pliant against mine. She stiffens for a brief moment, then relaxes as her back fits perfectly against my chest.

This feels… hard. Too hard. Pun not intended.

My arms tighten around her waist, drawing her closer. I can feel the warmth of her breath against my neck. The subtle scent of her shampoo is more potent with her this close; she’s overtaking all of my senses. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to nuzzle into her hair, to bury my face in the curve of her neck, and to inhale the scent of her.

Focus, Lawson. You’re here to work. Not to rekindle old flames.

But even as I think it, I can’t ignore the way my body is reacting to her nearness. The hard press of her thighs against mine, the subtle curve of her back against my chest, the way her scent wraps around me like a silken web… it’s driving me crazy.

Clearing my throat, I look at the team, ignoring their amused smirks. “Can we get back to work now, or would you all like to come back later and watch what we do after dinner?”

Lola shifts in my lap, her eyes flashing with a familiar fire at my crassness.

When no one says anything and the awkward silence has festered long enough, I clip out, “Good. Now, let’s get to work.” I nudge Lola in the side. “Tell us the plan.”

Without hesitation, Lola fires off. “Chad thinks he’s got this race in the bag.” Her voice is laced with a quiet confidence that sends a thrill through me. “He’s predictable. Arrogant. And he always underestimates his opponents, especially when they’re women.”

She pauses, her gaze meeting mine for a fleeting, charged moment.

“But we’re going to use that to our advantage. I know his strategies, his weaknesses, his blind spots. I know how he thinks.”

She proceeds to lay out a plan so brilliant, so audacious, it makes my blood sing. It’s risky, no doubt. But it is also…perfect.

For the next hour, the room buzzes with energy as we dissect Chad’s strategy, analyze track data, and fine-tune our own game plan. Lola is in her element, her voice ringing with passion and authority, her fingers tracing lines on diagrams and blueprints with a precision that makes my head spin.

I keep one arm casually draped around her waist, my fingers occasionally stroking the bare skin above her hip, a silent reminder of our charade. But with every laugh, every shared glance, every brush of our bodies, the line between performance and reality begins to blur.

“So,” Gene says finally, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “We’re going to beat Chad at his own game.”

“Not just beat him,” Lola corrects, her eyes flashing with a competitive fire that mirrors my own. “We’re going to annihilate him.”

“Damn right,” I agree.

Lola slides off my lap, grabbing her notebook and pen, her movements brisk and efficient. “It’s time we win.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

LOLA

Apparently,talking about potentially winning with Cole’s team calls for a celebration. Going to this dingy, beer-stained dive bar wasn’t my first choice—okay, it was the absolute bottom of the list—but I wasn’t protesting either. After the morning I had, tequila shots sounded like the perfect pick-me-up. Anything to drown out the memory of my disastrous meeting with the team.

The bass line thumps against my chest, a physical presence in the packed bar, vibrating my teeth as the tequila works its magic. The room starts to spin in a way that has nothing to do with the shots, transforming the crowd into a hazy, sweaty blob of writhing bodies and flailing limbs—none of which belong to Cole. He chose to park himself at the opposite end of the bar with Gene, talking about who knows what. Honestly, at this point, I couldn’t care less. My feet are killing me in these stupid heels, my head is pounding out a tribal rhythm, and if I have to hear Cole talk about racing stats one more time... well, let's just say Gene deserves to endure the suffering for being his friend.

“So, you and Chad, huh?” A body sidles up next to mine. “I always wondered what you saw in him.”

I turn and flash Cam a wicked smile. “I saw a paycheck, Cam. A. Big. Fat. Check.”

Apparently, lying has become my new thing. It's practically a second language at this point, rolling off my tongue smoother than a shot of tequila. And let me tell you, I've had a lot of tequila shots tonight. Because let’s be real… Getting a paycheck wasn’t the reason I dated Chad, no more than it’s the reason I’m fake-dating Cole. I love racing, always have, always will, but unfortunately, I've always loved the drivers, too. Which, as you can imagine, makes holding down a steady paycheck in this business pretty damn hard.

Cam grabs his stomach and doubles over, his laughter a booming sound in the hazy bar. It almost drowns out the thumping bass, which is saying something. The room tilts, and I grab the sticky surface of the bar to steady myself. “Oh, we are going to be good friends,” he manages to sputter out between chuckles. “I can already feel it.”

Yeah, well, I think the only thing he's feeling is the four beers he chugged earlier. The man has the alcohol tolerance of a tank—and about as much finesse. My head spins, and it's definitely not just the tequila this time. “I wouldn't get too excited,” I slur, attempting a charming smile that feels more like a grimace. “The men in my life usually run and never look back when I'm done with them.”

Details, Lola. Too many details. It's a little too early in this friendship—if you can even call it that—to give him the play-by-play on the “running” part. “You, my friend,” I say, poking him in the chest with a finger that seems to have a mind of its own, “may want to utilize that free trial period with me before you buy. I'm a little... glitchy.” Like a broken slot machine in Vegas. All flash, no payout.

The room swims, and I blink rapidly, trying to refocus on Cam. He's still grinning, the lucky bastard. “I get what you'reputting down,” he says, leaning closer. His breath smells of beer and something vaguely minty. “But you should know, most people in the racing business like to live on the edge. ‘Glitchy’ just gets us…hard.”

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