Page 26 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

I wave a dishtowel frantically at the offending device, my heart pounding in my chest—and not just because of the smoke detector. These eggs are beyond saving, a culinary crime scene that would make Gordon Ramsay weep. What in the world was Cole doing starting breakfast and then going back to sleep? Was he trying to burn the house down? Or was this some kind of elaborate revenge plot for the margarita incident?

“What the?—”

Cole’s voice, a husky murmur laced with sleep, startles me. I whirl around to find him standing in the doorway, his eyes bleary with sleep, his hair a tousled mess that would make a boy band member weep with envy. He’s still shirtless, his bare chest on full display, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe, how to think, how to do anything but stare at the sculpted perfection of his body, the way the morning light dances across his tanned skin.

Focus, Lola.My inner voice snaps me back to reality, though it’s a losing battle against the heat flaring in my cheeks and other less mentionable places. I force myself to look away from the six-pack abs that could grate cheese and meet his gaze instead.

Cole takes in the scene—the smoking pan, the screeching alarm, my frazzled appearance—and chuckles, a low rumble that vibrates through me like a finely tuned engine. “Guess I forgotabout those, huh?” he says, his voice rough with sleep, his grin crooked and utterly disarming.

“You think?” I manage, my voice a little breathless, my brain still short-circuiting from the combination of his bare chest and that panty-melting chuckle.

He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture sending another unwelcome jolt of lust through me. “Looks like we’re going out for breakfast,” he says, his gaze meeting mine with a spark of something I can’t quite decipher.

He steps closer, and the air between us crackles with a tension that has nothing to do with the burnt eggs. “Unless you’d rather have cereal,” he says, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sends goose bumps erupting across my skin.

“Cereal sounds good,” I say, backing away, desperate for some distance, for some semblance of sanity. “And maybe a hazmat suit.” I gesture towards the smoking pan. “For whoever has to clean up that disaster.”

Cole laughs a full-bodied sound that fills the kitchen, banishing the lingering scent of burnt eggs and replacing it with something far more intoxicating: the scent of possibility.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his grin widening. “I’ll clean it up.” He grabs the pan, tossing it into the sink with a clatter. “You go get dressed. I’ll meet you in the garage in ten.”

And with that, he turns and disappears back into the hallway, leaving me standing there, my heart racing, my mind spinning, and my body buzzing with an awareness that is simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

COLE

“I’ll havethe steak and eggs,” I say to the waitress, my stomach growling at the thought of something other than burnt offerings and lukewarm coffee.

Lola’s face scrunches up like she’s just tasted something foul. “Seriously?” she asks, her voice laced with disbelief. “Eggs?”

“What?” I ask, genuinely confused. “You don’t like eggs?”

She shakes her head, her blonde hair swinging around her shoulders. “How can you even think about eggs after smelling that charred disaster back at home?”

Home.

The word hangs in the air between us, a whispered confession that sends me into a tailspin. She called my househome. I’ve never heard anyone else call it that but me. Not my parents, not my teammates, not my friends. Only Lola.

I study her face, searching for a hint of deeper meaning behind her words, but she’s scanning the menu, her brow furrowed in concentration as she asks the waitress whether she recommends the pancakes or the crepes. Maybe it was a slip of the tongue, a meaningless utterance fueled by sleep deprivation and a lingering hangover.

I push the thought away, focusing on the waitress as she finishes taking Lola’s order. I’m Cole Lawson, master of control, king of compartmentalization. I don’t dwell on maybes, what-ifs, or the treacherous terrain of emotions. I stick to the facts, to the strategy, to the plan.

And the plan hasn’t changed. This is a business arrangement, a means to an end. Lola and I, we’re just playing our parts—flawlessly, it seems.

I push down the unwelcome memory of her in my arms, the scent of her hair, the way her body had fit so perfectly against mine. I could have had Lola Quinn years ago—really had her—but I walked away. No regrets, no looking back. That’s the code I live by. There are no do-overs for guys like me.

Burnt eggs momentarily forgotten, the waitress walks away, assuring us that our drinks will arrive shortly. Good. Because I suddenly feel like I’m sitting on a live wire, every nerve ending buzzing with awareness. The silence between Lola and me stretches, taut and charged with unspoken history, with the echoes of what might have been and the dangerous potential of what could be.

“So…” Lola starts, breaking the tension with a nervous laugh that grates on my nerves. “Are we expecting paparazzi to be camped outside, waiting to catch us walking out hand in hand?”

“No.” I shake my head, forcing a casual shrug. “I doubt it. It’s usually pretty low-key when I come here.”

Which is exactly why I chose this place. I’m not in the mood for a media circus, for flashing cameras and intrusive questions. I need coffee, a decent breakfast, and a plan to salvage this train wreck of a situation.

What the hell was I thinking, dragging Lola back into my life? Demanding she play the role of my doting girlfriend?

I need a win. More than I need a stellar image or the fleeting satisfaction of seeing Chad’s face contorted in defeat. Sponsorswant winners. Sure, it looks great in glossy magazine spreads if those winners have a ridiculously hot girlfriend by their side, one who also happens to be a genius in the garage and on the track, but at the end of the day, it’s the checkered flag that really matters.

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