Page 27 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

Lola is here to make those wins happen, to use her skills and knowledge to get me back on top. She’s here to analyze telemetry, to strategize pit stops, to whisper those magic words in my ear that will shave milliseconds off my lap times. She’s not here to confuse me, to muddy the lines between past and present, or awaken those dormant desires that I’ve spent years burying under layers of ambition and calculated detachment.

And yet…

I steal a glance at her, her profile illuminated by the morning sunlight. She’s beautiful, more so than I remember. Her focus is on her phone, her lips moving silently as if she’s mentally calculating something. It’s those lips, full and inviting, that draw my attention and send a jolt of unwanted heat straight to my groin. I remember the taste of them, the feel of them against mine…

I slam the brakes quickly on my stroll down memory lane and the unwelcome surge of desire.Get a grip, Lawson. This is not high school. This is not some reckless fling. This is business.

And I, Cole Lawson, do not mix business with pleasure.

“So, are we meeting with the crew today?”

I glance up, forcing my gaze to meet Lola’s. She’s put her phone down, those distractingly full lips now curved into a hesitant smile. I try—and fail—not to notice the way her breasts press against the table, the enticing swell of them visible beneath the soft cotton of her T-shirt.

“Later,” I answer, my voice rougher than intended. “I thought you might want the morning off, considering your late-night date with tequila.”

She winces, a delicate hand flying to her forehead. “Yeah,” she agrees, her voice a little weaker than usual. “That might be a good idea.”

Not for me, though. The last thing I need is to be stuck at home with Lola and nothing but the echoes of last night’s tequila-fueled confessions swirling between us.

I force a casual shrug, trying to ignore the unwelcome heat pooling in my groin at the thought of her spending the morning in my house, in my space, in my bed, a constant reminder of the fragile truce that holds us together. “I figured I could take a look at Eleanor,” I say, my voice betraying nothing of the turmoil raging within. “See what we need to get her back up and running.”

“Or…” Lola cocks an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You could stop looking like someone spit in your coffee and race me this morning.”

I rear back, genuinely confused. “Race what?”

She shrugs, her smile widening as she gestures vaguely in the direction of my garage, a wonderland of automotive indulgence. “The Mustang and the Porsche. Winner gets bragging rights and a free pass on pit crew duty for the next week.”

“No,” I say immediately, my voice flat and my tone brooking no argument. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” she challenges, leaning forward, her gaze locking onto mine with ferocious intensity. “Scared you’ll lose?”

“I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work,” I say, just as the waitress sets a steaming mug of coffee in front of me. The aroma—bitter and rich, just the way I like it—does little to soothe the tension thrumming through me. Or erase the memory of the feel of Lola’s hand gripping my shirt, her breath warm on my neck as I carried her… Nope, not thinking about that.

I eye the mug like it might bite back, then offer the retreating waitress a tight smile.

Across the table, Lola’s lips twitch, fighting back a smug smile as she watches me unravel. “And what, pray tell, am I doing?” she purrs, leaning back in her booth with an air of amusement.

“Goading me,” I mutter as I wrap my hands around the warm mug, trying to siphon some of its heat to counter the icy dread settling in my stomach. Or maybe it’s the memory of her leg brushing against mine… Damn, I need more coffee.

She knows, better than anyone, how to push my buttons. Knows that all it takes to get what she wants is to appeal to my competitive nature. I’ve never been able to turn down a race, a challenge, a chance to prove myself. And right now, with the memory of last night—of carrying her to bed, her laughter echoing in my ears, her scent a confusing mix of tequila and something uniquely Lola—still swirling in my mind, I’m anything but fine.

“I’m not goading you,” she says, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. Her posture remains relaxed and confident, a stark contrast to the agitation thrumming through my veins. “I am simply trying to put you in a better mood this morning.”

“My mood is fine,” I lie, my tone as clipped and sharp as the edge of a steak knife. But the tension radiating off me, the way my jaw is clenched tight enough to crack teeth, betrays the truth.

“Right,” she drawls, her eyes sparkling with amusement. She takes a leisurely sip of her coffee, her gaze lingering on me over the rim of her mug. “Because practically vibrating out of your skin and glaring at that coffee like it holds all the answers to the universe is your usual brand of ‘fine.’”

“Be careful, Quinn,” I say, my voice deliberately light and teasing. “Talking like that might lead someone to believe you actually care about me.” I try to ignore the way my pulse quickens as her gaze snaps up to meet mine, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

“Don’t mistake my love for engines as love for you,” she counters, her tone clipped as she pushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You know I love the Mustang.”

That she does. Lola’s practically worshipped that car since we were kids, ever since she saw a picture of it in some dusty car magazine. It’s one of the reasons I bought it, if I’m being honest. “That you do,” I agree, leaning back as the waitress arrives with our food. The aroma of my steak and eggs mingles with the sweet, syrupy scent of Lola’s pancakes, but my appetite has vanished. “But guess what?” I add, unable to resist pushing her buttons a little, too. “There’s no way in fucking hell that you’re driving it.”

Lola scoffs, but I see the challenge sparking in her eyes, and a hint of anticipation—or maybe it’s just dread—shoots through me. This is Lola we’re talking about. She can’t resist a dare either, especially one involving a high-powered engine and a chance to prove me wrong. “Tell me,” I say, digging into my steak and eggs, “When was the last time you were behind the wheel in an actual race?”

The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with unspoken history. Lola, who used to tear through the backroads with a fearlessness that bordered on reckless, has spent the last several years chained to a headset in the garage, her need for speed channeled into meticulous data analysis and strategic commands. She’s a genius in the garage, no doubt, but behind the wheel? Let’s just say my insurance premiums would skyrocket if she so much as looked at the Mustang’s key fob.

“Don’t doubt my skills,” she snaps, her fork clattering to her plate as she fixes me with a glare that would make a lesser man cower. “Just because I’ve been in the garage doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to beat you.”

---