Page 36 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

I decidethe best thing to do to get over the awkwardness of last night’s shower show is to drag Cole out of bed at butt-crack o’clock and make him work on Eleanor with me. The man could sleep through a hurricane, but even he isn’t immune to my particular brand of morning enthusiasm. Which mostly involves me banging around his kitchen, muttering about coffee, and threatening to unleash my inner banshee if he doesn’t surface soon.

Turns out, grumpy Cole in a rumpled T-shirt and a cloud of bedhead is somehow even more attractive than well-rested Cole. Who knew? Not that I’m staring or anything. Definitely not.

But a few stolen glances are enough to send my stomach into a nosedive. Seeing him in the harsh light of morning, the memory of those sudsy glimpses of his… physique… it’s all a bit much. Plus, there was the kiss that could end all kisses in victory lane.

So, Eleanor it is. Our usual sanctuary. The smell of oil and gasoline, the feel of a wrench in my hand, the satisfying click of a well-placed bolt—that is my comfort zone. Talking about feelings? Not so much.

“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Cole murmurs, his voice rough with sleep. His eyes are on me, intense and searching.

“Just enjoying the peace,” I lie, avoiding his gaze. “Before the day gets crazy.”

“Right,” he says, skepticism clear in his tone. “Because you’re known for your Zen-like calm.”

I shoot him a glare that could probably freeze gasoline. “Don’t push it this morning.”

“Then stop lying.”

His usually confident voice that is so damn cocky is soft, sending a shiver down my spine. He leans closer, his gaze searching mine with a sincerity that makes my breath catch. The air between us crackles, a stark contrast to the sterile calm of his garage.

“You’ve been… distant all morning. Was it yesterday?”

The shower.

The memory, unwelcome and vivid, floods back to my mind faster than the speed of light, almost like it never left at all. The steaming-hot water, the too-small space, the way my skin had practically sizzled while I watched him jerk off. My skin still feels sensitized, charged with an energy I can’t explain.

“Yesterday was… eventful,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper. Every nerve ending in my body seems to be on high alert, acutely aware of Cole’s proximity.

He takes another step closer, and I have to resist the urge to lean back and put some distance between us.

“Lola,” he breathes, his voice husky. “Talk to me.”

His words hang in the air between us, a plea and a challenge all wrapped up in one. The wrench slips in my greasy fingers, and I curse under my breath, more flustered than I care to admit.

“What do you want me to say?” I ask, my voice sharper than intended. It’s easier to deflect, to push him away, than toacknowledge the jumble of emotions swirling inside me. “That things are… weird now? That I can’t seem to look at you without picturing you?—”

I stop abruptly, biting back the rest of the sentence. Picturing him how? Naked as the day he was born, droplets of water clinging to his sculpted chest? The way his hair had darkened with moisture, curling slightly at the nape of his neck?

The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words and simmering tension. Cole doesn’t back down, his gaze unwavering.

“Without picturing me how, Lola?”

His voice is low and dangerous, a rumble that seems to vibrate in my chest. I swear I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. This infuriating man wants to talk about it, and I want to avoid it like the plague.

I take a deep breath, willing my pulse to slow. This close, I can see flecks of gold in the depths of his brown eyes, a warmth that belies the hard set of his jaw.

“With your cock in your hand,” My voice is barely a whisper.

The words hang in the air, shockingly loud in the silence of the garage. My cheeks burn, and for a moment, I think I might actually combust from the sheer mortification of it all.

Cole’s eyes widen slightly, and then a slow smile spreads across his face. It’s a devastatingly attractive smile, the kind that makes me want to simultaneously kiss him and run for the hills.

“Is that so?” he asks, his voice husky.

My gaze drops to his lips, full and slightly parted. They’re just begging to be kissed.

Oh, goodness. What am I doing?

Heat floods my cheeks, spreading down my neck and settling somewhere deep in the pit of my stomach. The wrench feels heavy in my hand, foreign and useless. My usual defenses—sarcasm, humor, a well-timed eye roll—desert me under the intensity of his gaze.

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