Page 13 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

I fumble with my keys as a wave of exhaustion washes over me. I need a hot shower, a change of clothes, and a week-long nap, in that order. But something tells me, with Cole Lawson lurking behind me, a peaceful sleep isn’t happening anytime soon. I predict his second attempt to make this stupid fake dating idea a real thing is coming up next.

I push open the apartment door, bracing myself for the usual chaos that is my brother’s apartment. The scent of stale pizza, old socks, and something vaguely resembling wet dog hits me in the face like a wall.

“I will cut you if you say one word,” I threaten, turning around to face Cole. I’m in no mood to hear any more remarks from him. My brother is a forever bachelor. Like me, he doesn’t try to impress people, but that doesn’t mean I want anyone looking down on him just because he’s not the greatest housekeeper.

Cole makes a zipping motion across his lips, and it annoys the shit out of me. “Why are you even here?” I ask. “Thank youfor the ride and all, but like I already told you on the phone, I’m not interested in your ridiculous deal.”

Before he can answer, the sound of crunching comes from the living room.

“Don’t tell me he has rats,” I mutter, tossing my bag onto the floor as I head toward the source of the noise. I prepare for the worst, but what I see stops me in my tracks.

Brutus, my brother’s crusty, drool-happy mutt, lies sprawled on the living room floor, gnawing on something that looks suspiciously like… my favorite pair of Italian leather boots.

“Brutus! No!” I lunge for the dog, but it’s too late. The boot, once a symbol of my hard-earned success, is now a mangled heap of leather and slobber.

“Seriously, Brian?” I yell, my voice echoing in the empty apartment. “Why can’t you like cats?”

I turn to Cole, who is still in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips as he surveys the scene with a mixture of amusement and thinly veiled disgust.

“Charming,” he drawls, his gaze lingering on the destroyed boot before shifting to me with a glint of something predatory in his eyes. “Maybe this is a sign you should reconsider my offer.”

“Don’t push your luck, Lawson,” I warn, my patience wearing thin, but a tiny seed of doubt begins to sprout in my mind. Maybe his offer isn’t so crazy after all... I mean, I’ve done crazier things. You know…like trying to mow down my cheating ex with my car.

I storm past him, heading toward my temporary bedroom to… I don’t know. Get away? Hope he’ll leave if I don’t return? I don’t understand all the thoughts running through my head at the moment.

But as I push open the bedroom door, a wave of nausea hits me. The sight, or should I say smell, that greets me is worse, far worse, than a mangled boot.

My bed, the one sanctuary in this chaotic apartment, is soaked. And not just damp, but drenched in a pungent, unmistakable liquid.

“Brutus, you furry little bastard!” I wail, collapsing onto the floor, my carefully constructed defenses crumbling faster than a gingerbread house in a hurricane.

This is it. This is my breaking point. I thought I hit rock bottom when I tried to run over Chad, but boy, was I wrong.

Cole appears in the doorway, his amusement fading as he takes in the scene.

I look up at him, my eyes stinging with tears of frustration, defeat, and the pungent aroma of dog pee. “Fine,” I concede, my voice trembling. “Deal. Fake girlfriend. Job. Whatever you want. Just get me out of this hellhole.”

His grin returns, smug and infuriatingly attractive. “That’s my girl,” he says, extending a hand to help me up. “Welcome to Team Hahn.”

I take his hand, hating that I’m grateful, hating that he was right, hating that I am already in way over my head.

CHAPTER FIVE

LOLA

“I can’t believemy life has come to this,” I mutter, digging my fingers into the plush leather interior of Cole Lawson’s vintage Mustang like it’s a life raft in a sea of storms. Except the only one drowning right now is me.

It doesn’t help that the Florida sun is beating down on us, turning the car into a sauna. Then again, I’m pretty sure the main source of heat is radiating off Cole. He’s all relaxed confidence behind the wheel, tanned forearms flexing as he shifts gears, a lock of dark hair falling carelessly over his forehead. I have to resist the urge to reach out and brush it away, which I’m sure is only because I want his vision unobstructed while he drives. Not because that dark hair looks soft and silky, unlike the five-o-clock shadow on his jaw or the way his lips move as he hums along to a classic rock song on the radio.

No! He is not hot—at all. Not his biceps, stubble, or lips—definitely not his forearms. The man is as disgusting as they come—especially with his shitty attitude.

But dammit if those biceps aren’t on full display every time he shifts gears, the worn fabric of his T-shirt stretching taut across his chest. The subtle scent of his cologne, somethingwoodsy and expensive, fills my senses and makes me feel lightheaded.

Or maybe that’s just the humidity.

That’s it. I’m getting sick. I must have caught something while being held in that musty jail cell. It’s the only logical explanation for ogling a man I hate while driving to his house—well, calling it a “house” feels like calling a Ferrari a “car.” It’s a mansion, a palace, a temple of bachelorhood built on a foundation of speed, testosterone, and probably a few broken hearts. I’d seen it before when I’d driven by and flipped him off a few times. Not to mention all the times I Google-Earthed it and tried zooming in on the new pool he was putting in.

Don’t judge me. Everyone does it. Stalking people you hate is research. Someone has to break in and pee in his pool occasionally. Okay. Fine. I never peed in his pool, but I thought about it. See my level of restraint? I’m practically a saint.

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