Page 44 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

“To lucky lap number 13!” she shouts. “And to lucky Lola!”

The crew erupts in cheers. I catch Lola’s eye across the room. She raises her glass, a secretive smile playing on her lips.

“Bout time you started listening to your race engineer, Cole!” Gene yells over the din of cheers.

I roll my eyes. “I always listen.”

“Bullshit!” Cam laughs. “How many races did we lose before you pulled your head out of your ass?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, but there’s no heat in it. They’re right, I can’t dispute it.

Lola sidles up, grinning. “Face it, Lawson. I’m your good luck charm.”

“More like a pain in my ass,” I shoot back, but I can’t keep the smile off my face.

“A pain in the ass that just broke your losing streak again,” Gene chimes in. “I’d keep her around if I were you.”

Something flashes in Lola’s eyes at his comment. I swallow hard, suddenly aware of how close she’s standing.

“Don’t worry, boys,” she says, not breaking eye contact with me. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The implications of that statement hang in the air between us, charged with possibility.

“All right, all right,” I growl, tearing my gaze away. “Enough yappin’. We came here to celebrate, didn’t we?”

The night wears on, with more toasts and race stories, growing increasingly exaggerated with each telling. But through it all, I’m hyperaware of Lola’s presence. Her laugh, her movements, the way she fits so seamlessly into this world of mine.

As the crowd starts to thin, she appears at my side. “Ready to head home, hotshot?”

Home. The word hits differently now.

“Yeah,” I nod, surprised to find I mean it. “Let’s go home.”

As we head for the door, Cam calls out, “Hey, Cole! Try not to screw this up, yeah? Some of us like winning!”

I flip him off good-naturedly, but his words echo in my head as we step into the cool night air.

Try not to screw this up.

Easier said than done. But as I watch Lola walk to the car, backlit by the neon of O’Malley’s sign, I know one thing for certain.

I probably will. I seem to have a knack for screwing things up with Lola.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

LOLA

I swear,if looks could kill, Cole would be six feet under right now. Here we are, having the same damn argument for what feels like the millionth time, and he’s got the nerve to look at me like I’m the crazy one. Un-freakin-believable.

“This is insane, Cole! Absolutely insane!” I’m practically screeching at this point, my voice bouncing around the garage like a ping-pong ball on steroids. My hands are doing that thing where they plant themselves on my hips—you know, the universal ‘I’m pissed, and you better listen up’ stance.

And Cole? He’s just standing there, cool as a freaking cucumber, probably thinking he looks like some brooding hero from a romance novel. Newsflash, buddy: you’re not nearly as irresistible as you think you are.

“Lola,” he drawls, and I swear my name’s never sounded so infuriating, “we’ve been over this.”

Oh, that does it. “Yeah, well, ‘over’ implies that we’ve reached some kind of resolution,” I snap back, laying the sarcasm on thicker than my aunt Penny’s makeup. “And unless I missed a chapter in theHow to Win a Racehandbook, ramming a driver into the wall isn’t exactly a winning strategy.”

He’s looking at me with those whiskey-colored eyes of his, and damn it all to hell, why does he have to be so… so… Cole? It’s like my insides can’t decide if they want to punch him or kiss him senseless. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud, mind you.

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