Page 28 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

There’s something in the way her eyes meet mine—a fiery mix of defiance and something dangerously close to longing—that sends a jolt of adrenaline straight to my groin. It’s the same look she used to get right before she’d challenge me to a race back in high school, her brother’s beat-up Honda Civic a roaring testament to her need for speed. Back then, the stakes were bragging rights and a case of soda. Now? Now, I’m not so sure what we’re playing for, but the intensity in her gaze tells me it’s something I’m not willing to lose.

And dammit, maybe that’s the caffeine talking, but I can’t help myself.

“All right, Lola,” I say, throwing enough cash to cover our bill on the table, along with a generous tip, I stand from the booth, a reckless grin spreading across my face. “Let’s see what you got.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

LOLA

My heart poundsagainst my ribs, a frantic rhythm echoing the anticipation—and maybe a hint of trepidation—swirling in my stomach. I smooth down the wrinkles of my T-shirt, a nervous gesture that does little to calm the butterflies taking flight within me. It's been a while since I've found myself on the verge of something so exhilarating.

Across the garage, Cole moves with an effortless grace, adjusting his gloves with a practiced flick of his wrist, and I can't help but notice the way the fabric of his shirt stretches taut across his shoulders, the subtle flex of muscle beneath. Damn, the man is a walking distraction.

He catches me staring, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. “Ready to lose?” he asks, his voice laced with that infuriating confidence I both love and loathe.

“You wish,” I shoot back. My pulse quickens as I pull it on, the world outside shrinking to the sound of my own breathing and the faint echo of Cole’s challenge as I ease behind the wheel.

The roar of the Porsche's engine as Cole fires it up reverberates through the garage, a visceral symphony of power and precision. I answer with the guttural growl of the Mustang, my fingers tingling with anticipation as I grip the steeringwheel. My gaze locks on Cole's through the window, the air between us crackling with unspoken rivalry—and something else, something hotter and more dangerous that I can't quite name.

“Don't scratch the paint,” he yells, the twinkle in his eyes is unmistakable.

I just smirk, giving him a sarcastic salute. It's time to remind Cole Lawson exactly what Lola Quinn is capable of.

The garage doors rumble open, flooding the space with warm, early morning light. I ease the Mustang out onto the asphalt, the growl of the engine resonating deep in my chest, a familiar thrill that chases away any lingering doubts. This is where I belong, behind the wheel of a machine built for speed and precision.

Cole is already out there in the Porsche, a sleek, powerful silhouette against the backdrop of the rising sun. He revs the engine, a challenge I meet with a smirk and a tap of my foot on the accelerator. The Mustang responds with a throaty purr, eager to be unleashed.

I follow Cole’s lead as we head to the old track, tucked away behind Route 13, where we used to race in high school. It’s nostalgic being back here. Forget football, this right here was our Friday night lights.

I don’t have time to dwell on those memories, though. I’ve got a race to win.

We line up at the makeshift starting line he’d marked, the original one long gone. The air crackles between us, thick with unspoken history and the weight of expectation. This isn't just about cars anymore. It's about pride, about proving something to ourselves and to each other.

"Remember," Cole’s yells through the window, a hint of amusement in his tone, "if you ain’t first, you’re last."

Of course, he’s throwing out aTalladega Nightsquote. We watched that movie so many times. "Save your breath, Ricky Bobby," I retort, my voice sharper than intended, though a thrill shoots through me at the familiar sound of his voice, the competitive banter that has always sparked between us. "You're going to need it to sing my praises when I blow your doors off."

A beat of silence, then his low chuckle, a sound that would make my knees weak if I weren’t already sitting.

My hand tightens on the gearshift. We might not have a countdown, but we don't need one. We both know the instant our eyes meet, the challenge is on. This is it. No more second-guessing, no more distractions. This is my moment to remind Cole—to remind myself—who Lola Quinn really is.

The roar of engines rip through the air, and we're off.

The Mustang surges forward with a force that pins me back against the seat, the world outside blurring into a rush of colors and sound. I grip the steering wheel, my senses on high alert, every nerve ending alive with the thrill of the race. Beside me, Cole's Porsche is a blur of silver, easily keeping pace with the Mustang's raw power.

The first turn approaches fast, a sharp bend that tests both driver and machine. I downshift, the engine roaring its protest as I wrestle the car into submission, my heart pounding in my chest as I navigate the curve with effortlessly, the tires screaming their defiance against the worn-down asphalt.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cole take a different line, wider, more cautious. I know this corner, know the limits of its grip, and I push the Mustang harder, exploiting every inch of the road. The car responds beautifully, the perfect harmony of precision engineering and raw power.

We come out of the turn side-by-side, the space between us thick with tension. I can practically feel Cole's gaze on me, a mix of disbelief and admiration. He should have known better thanto think he could outmaneuver me on this track. This is me in my element, always has been. This isn't some calculated strategy session in the sterile environment of the garage. Out here, it's pure instinct, pure adrenaline, pure Lola. And this Lola? She's playing to win.

The long straight stretches before us, a ribbon of asphalt begging to be devoured. I slam my foot down on the accelerator, the Mustang responding proudly with a surge of power that leaves the Porsche in its dust. The engine roars, a glorious chord of mechanical fury, and I feel a laugh bubble up in my chest, pure exhilaration drowning out any lingering doubts I might have had.

But Cole isn't giving up that easily, because of course, he isn’t. I see him in my rearview mirror, a relentless pursuer, his Porsche hugging the curves, its engine a persistent purr echoing behind me.

The next series of turns is a haze of asphalt, adrenaline, and precision driving. Each curve is a test, a delicate dance between speed and control, and I push the Mustang to its limits, the tires singing a siren song of grip and surrender. I can sense Cole right behind me, matching my every move, his presence both exhilarating and terrifying.

The final turn approaches, a sharp hairpin that will determine the winner. I brake late and hard, the Mustang protesting but ultimately obeying my command. I feel the back end fishtailing, and the adrenaline spikes in my veins as I fight for control, my heart pounding against my ribs. For a heartbeat, I think I’ve pushed too far, but then, with a combination of instinct and sheer luck, I manage to wrestle the car back into line, the tires finding their grip just in time.

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