Page 21 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

I force a smile, nodding along like I understand, but honestly? Bull. Shit. Maybe it’s because I’m a woman, and we’re basically wired to multitask, but I don’t understand this whole “one-track mind” excuse. If someone, or something, is important to you, you make time. You nurture it. You fight for it. You rearrange your entire damn schedule for it.

My gaze snaps back to Cole, drawn, as always, to the electric current of his presence. Our eyes lock across the dimly lit dive bar, and my breath catches in my throat. He’s no longer speaking to Gene, who’s currently trying to demonstrate a racing maneuver with a half-empty beer bottle. Nope, Cole’s jaw is ticking like it has its own heartbeat, a muscle jumping in his cheek. The man practically vibrates with barely contained fury, and it’s freakin’ me out.

What the hell did I do now?

I wrack my brain, replaying the last hour in a desperate attempt to figure out what set him off this time. Was it something I said? Something I didn’t say? I’d been on my best behavior—relatively speaking—resisted the urge to spike his beer with hot sauce, hadn’t tripped any overly friendly fans who got handsy… Hell, I even laughed at one of his stupid jokes. It involved a priest, a rabbi, and a starting line—don’t ask. I gave him space to calm down about my less-than-graceful entrance earlier, even though it wasn’t my fault his team decided to have a meeting in a place where the only scent stronger than stale beer is broken promises. If I had known, I might have put on something a little less… revealing.

Frustration bubbles up inside me, hot and prickly. Fine. Two can play this game.

Carefully, I slip my hand down my sticky glass, shielding my next move from everyone but him. And with a flick of my wrist, I flip him off. Not the most mature response, but satisfying, nonetheless.

Jerk.

I don’t know who spit in his drink to get him all worked up, but it wasn’t me. He doesn’t need to glare at me like I’m public enemy number one.

Like I flipped a switch, Cole slams his beer down on the bar top, pretty sure he’s been nursing that same beer all night. My breath catches in my throat as he turns, his gaze zeroing in on me with the intensity of a laser beam as he heads my way. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes, a flicker of something that looks a whole lot like possessiveness, and damn if it doesn’t send a flood of arousal through my veins. Wait, what? That’s not right!

“We’re leaving,” he barks, his voice low and laced with an authority that would make a drill sergeant proud. “The celebration is over.”

I bristle, my good mood vanishing faster than a shot of tequila on an empty stomach. Just who the hell does he think he is?

“No,” I say, my voice deceptively calm despite the riot of emotions swirling inside me. I turn my back on him, fixing a bright smile on Cam’s bewildered face. “The celebration has just begun. Isn’t that right, Cam?”

Cam hesitates, clearly torn between his best friend’s simmering rage and my… let’s call it persuasive charm. After what feels like an eternity, he clears his throat, mutters something about needing another drink, and hightails it out of the bar.

Traitor.

Cole smirks, but it’s gone as quickly as it emerged, replaced by that infuriatingly neutral mask he wears so well. “When you’re posing as my girlfriend,” he all but growls, his voice a low rumble in my ear, “you will remain at my side until I dismiss you.”

I see red. I swear, it’s like he just waved a red flag in front of a bull. This man has officially lost all his marbles if he thinks he can get away with talking to me—talkingdownto me—like that, especially in front of half the racing circuit.

Before I can stop myself, I grab my drink—a particularly potent margarita, heavy on the tequila—and toss the entire contents right in his smug, ridiculously handsome face.

“There,” I say, my voice tight with barely suppressed fury. “Consider yourself dismissed.”

The liquid drips down his face, tequila mixing with the sweat on his brow, tracing a path along his jawline that is far too tempting for my own good. For a split second, I see surprise flicker across his features, followed by something that looks suspiciously like... amusement?

And then, it’s gone.

Before I can even blink, I’m in the air, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes—a screaming, furious, strangely turned-on sack of potatoes.

“Put me down, Lawson!” I shriek, pounding my fists against his back for good measure. “Or I swear to God...”

My threats are cut short as he carries me out of the bar, my protests swallowed by the roar of laughter and drunken cheers from the crowd we leave in our wake.

CHAPTER NINE

COLE

I can still tastethe margarita she threw in my face. Lime, tequila, and a healthy dose of Lola's signature defiance. If this wasn't a carefully constructed act—a performance for the cameras and our dwindling fan base—I would have bent her over my knee right there in the middle of the bar and spanked her ass until it was as red as her fiery temper.

No one throws a drink in my face.

No one.

“You should thank your friend, Cam, tomorrow, darling,” I grit out, my voice dangerously low as I shove open the door to my car. It’s childish, this surge of possessiveness and irrational anger at seeing her flirt, laugh, and breathe in the general vicinity of another man. But I can’t seem to stop it.

When the hell did I become this man? This jealous asshole who drags his fake girlfriend out of a conversation just because it’s driving him to the brink of insanity? When did Lola Quinn worm her way back under my skin, turning me into a parody of every overprotective boyfriend I've ever mocked?

---