Page 22 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

I shove the thought away, disgusted with myself.Get a grip, Lawson. This isn’t real. This is a business transaction, a means to an end.

But as I glance down at Lola, her eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and what looks a hell of a lot like excitement, a different kind of transaction flashes through my mind. One that has nothing to do with sponsorships or winning races, and everything to do with those soft curves pressed against my chest and the lingering scent of tequila and trouble.

I shake my head, clearing the image away.

Focus.

“Get in,” I command, shoving open the passenger door and setting her on her feet.

She crosses her arms, her expression mutinous. “You know, for a guy who claims to hate drama, you sure seem to attract a lot of it.”

“Get. In. The. Car. Lola,” I repeat, my voice dangerously low. I’m not playing around.

She hesitates, then with a sigh that sounds suspiciously like a growl, she climbs into the car. I slam the door shut behind her, the sound echoing in the silence that stretches between us.

I can’t get it out of my head as I round the hood of my car to get in. It’s her fault. This whole messed-up situation, this unwelcome surge of emotion, the way my body is reacting to her as if she's oxygen, and I haven’t taken a single fucking breath in years.

It's all her fault.

Crazy doesn't even begin to cover this situation.

We drive to my house in silence, the air thick with unspoken words and simmering tension. Lola stares out her window, face turned away from me, a stubborn set to her jaw that I simultaneously want to kiss and hate. And me? I clench the steering wheel, my knuckles white, focusing on the road and the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers as they battle against a sudden downpour. Neither of us is budging, unwilling to bethe first to break the silence, to offer a concession or even think about the wordsorry.

Because, let’s be real, I have nothing to be sorry for. She was flirting with Cam—laughing that throaty laugh that does unholy things to my insides. I did what any other boyfriend—fake or not—would do. I handled the situation.

Maybe a little rougher than necessary, but semantics.

Glancing at Lola, I find the reason for her sudden silence. She’s fallen asleep, her cheek pressed against the cool glass of the window, her lips slightly parted as if she’s dreaming. Her eyelashes, thick and dark against her pale skin, cast shadows on her cheeks, and for a moment, I'm struck by how young she looks, how vulnerable. It’s a side of her I haven’t seen in years, a stark contrast to the fiery, take-no-prisoners woman who nearly took out half the supermarket parking lot in her pajamas.

A chuckle escapes my lips before I can stop it. Damn, she’s a mess. But she’s my mess.

And for the first time since she tossed that margarita in my face, I feel a sliver of gratitude for the silence. At least I don’t have to listen to her scathing retorts, her witty comebacks, her uncanny ability to see right through my carefully constructed façade. At least for now, there's peace.

A fragile, temporary peace that will no doubt shatter the moment she opens those damn doe eyes of hers.

Finally, I pull into the quiet sanctuary of my garage, the automatic lights flicking on to reveal Lola still dead to the world in the passenger seat.

Great. Just great.

I consider my options, weighing the potential consequences like a calculated risk on the track. Do I wake her? Risk her unleashing a torrent of fiery words, those emerald eyes blazing with righteous anger? Or do I carry her into the house and put her to bed? Risk the feel of her in my arms, the weight of herpressing against me, the undeniable urge to bury my face in her soft hair and inhale the scent of her—citrus and something uniquely, infuriatingly Lola?

Decisions, decisions.

Fuck it. I'm Cole Lawson. I don't back down from a challenge, even if that challenge involves navigating the minefield of Lola Quinn's unconscious mind.

Slowly, cautiously, I open the passenger door. It’s like disturbing a sleeping tiger—one that smells faintly of tequila and whole lot like of lingering regret. Lola slumps to the side, nearly tumbling into my lap. Guess that makes the decision for me.

Scooping her up, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back, I try to ignore the way her head falls against my chest, the warmth of her breath against my neck. She mumbles something incoherent about flossing and unicorns, her words muffled against my shirt.

Who knows what goes on in that head of hers? I stopped trying to figure Lola out years ago. Some mysteries—especially the ones with curves like hers—are best left unsolved.

For now, I'll settle for the feel of her weight in my arms, the unexpected rightness of it all, as I carry her inside. I'll pretend this fragile truce isn't built on a foundation of lies, margaritas, tequila shots, and a healthy dose of mutual insanity.

Momentarily, I'll just enjoy the silence.

Until, of course, there is no more silence.

The illusion shatters—as I should have known it would—a mere five seconds after I step inside.

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