Page 24 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

“Mm-hmm.”

It’s all I can manage, all I can force past the sudden lump in my throat. I’m suddenly terrifyingly aware of her in a way I haven’t been since… well, since the last time we were in a room alone together. The air crackles with unspoken tension, every breath I take laced with the intoxicating scent of her perfume and something far more dangerous: the memory of what it felt like to touch her, to taste her, to lose myself in the heat of her gaze.

I’m in dangerous territory here, and I know it.

Turning on the bedside lamp, I flood the room with soft, golden light, hoping to dispel some of the tension that’s wound tighter than a finish line sprint. The sleek gray sheets, the silver accents, the framed photos of my childhood racing trophies—it’s a side of me I rarely share, a glimpse behind the carefully curated image of Cole Lawson, Racing Prodigy.

“It’s… not white,” Lola observes, her voice hushed with surprise.

“No,” I say, a wry smile playing on my lips. “It isn’t.”

“Why?”

I shrug, suddenly feeling self-conscious, like she’s peering into a part of me I keep hidden from the world. I place her gently on the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight.

“In here,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, “I’m not on display for the world. In here, I can just… be me.”

She raises an eyebrow, her gaze sweeping across the room again, lingering on the trophies, the framed racing posters, and the worn copy ofThe Art of Racing in the Rainsitting on my nightstand. “And this is you?” she asks, her voice laced with a curiosity that both thrills and terrifies me. “All of this is the real Cole Lawson?”

I nod, feeling a blush creep up my neck. Me, who laughs in the face of danger, who thrives on adrenaline and competition, reduced to a blushing schoolboy under the intensity of her gaze.

I walk to the dresser, pull open a drawer, and grab the first T-shirt my fingers touch. It’s soft, worn thin with countless washes, and it smells faintly of my cologne and engine oil. I toss it on the bed, close enough that she can smell it and feel the lingering warmth of me in the fabric.

“For in the morning,” I say, my voice a husky whisper that seems to hang in the air between us. “Just in case.”

And then, before I can overthink it, before I do something stupid like kiss the hesitant smile off her lips, I turn and walk out of the room, closing the door softly behind me.

My room. My sanctuary. A space I’ve fiercely guarded from the outside world, from the prying eyes and relentless expectations that come with being Cole Lawson.

And now, for better or worse, I’ve invited her in.

CHAPTER TEN

LOLA

My head throbs,a relentless beat that mirrors the pounding in my temples. Groaning, I crack one eye open, then the other, squinting against the unfamiliar light streaming through the window. The room swims into focus: sleek modern furniture, navy blue walls, a distinct lack of stuffed animals or fuzzy pink anything.

Where in the fresh hell…?

Then, it hits me, a shot of pure panic straight to my tequila-soaked brain. Cole. His scent—that intoxicating mix of cologne, gasoline, and something uniquely him—clings to the air, to the sheets, to the oversized T-shirt I’m currently drowning in.

Cole’s T-shirt. On my body. In Cole’s bed.

Oh, God. I’m going to die. And it’s going to be a death by embarrassment, probably featured on the cover of every gossip rag in the country. Headline: Lola Quinn: Racing’s Bad Girl Caught Between Two Heartthrob Drivers!

Memories of the previous night, tequila-soaked and blurry around the edges, flood back in a disjointed rush: the bar, Cam’s too-perceptive questions, my loose-lipped confessions, the feel of Cole’s arms around me as he carried me out of there like I weighed less than a feather...

The heat that flares in my cheeks has nothing to do with the hangover.

I sit up, the world tilting precariously as I try to untangle myself from the sheets. They’re soft, luxurious, most likely a ridiculously high thread count… just like everything else in Cole’s meticulously curated life. I, on the other hand, feel like I’ve been run over by a fleet of very judgmental bulldozers.

It’s official: I’m never drinking tequila again.

I need to get out of here. Now.

But as I swing my bare legs over the side of the bed, I’m hit with the horrifying realization that “getting out of here” requires a whole lot more stealth than I possess at this particular moment. Especially since the only thing standing between me and a complete meltdown is this flimsy T-shirt.

How drunk was I last night?

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