Page 38 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

Cole doesn’t need words. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his breath sending a fresh wave of shivers down my spine.

“This is us, Lola,” he murmurs, his voice husky. “Just like it was always supposed to be, just like it always should be.”

And as his lips find mine again, I can’t help but wonder if he’s right. Maybe this is destiny, fate, a force stronger than our own doubts and fears, one that’s been brewing for years. Or maybe it’s a huge mistake, one that will blow up in our faces like a poorly timed backfire.

But right now, with Cole’s hands on my body and his kiss setting my soul on fire, I don’t have the energy to care.

Is he right? Is this us? Before I can overthink it and let my ever-present doubts cloud the moment, Cole deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips. It’s a silent plea, one I answer without hesitation.

His hands are everywhere, mapping the curves of my body with a hunger that mirrors my own. One hand remains tangled in my hair, holding me steady, while the other roams beneath my shirt, exploring the skin bared by the worn cotton.

A soft moan escapes my throat, a sound I have no hope of containing. I’m drowning in sensations, in the feel of his calloused fingers against my heated skin, the intoxicating scent of him filling my senses. Every touch, every brush of his lipsagainst mine, chips away at the carefully constructed walls around my heart.

He senses my surrender, the way my body arches closer, seeking more of his touch. A low growl rumbles in his chest, vibrating against me, and it’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard.

“You feel so good, Lola,” he murmurs against my skin, his breath hot and heavy. “So damn good.”

His words, spoken with a raw honesty that steals my breath away, are more erotic than any practiced phrase. They strip away the pretense, the years of hurt and longing, leaving only the two of us, raw and exposed in the dim light of his garage.

The kiss changes, softens, and Cole’s mouth moves from my lips to trace a path along my jawline. His breath, hot and slightly uneven, sends shivers dancing across my skin. Every nerve ending is on high alert, alive with a yearning I haven’t felt in years.

“Lola,” he breathes, his voice rough with emotion. “Look at me.”

I hesitate, a flicker of uncertainty momentarily eclipsing the desire that thrums through me. Meeting his gaze feels dangerous, exposing, like laying bare the deepest secrets of my soul.

His hand finds mine, intertwining our fingers. His grip is firm yet gentle, a reassurance as much as a command. “Lola,” he repeats, his voice softer this time, coaxing. “Please.”

Slowly, tentatively, I lift my gaze to meet his. The intensity in his eyes, a mixture of desire and vulnerability, steals my breath away. It’s the look of a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to claim it. But it’s also the look of a man who’s terrified of shattering something precious.

For a fleeting moment, I let myself believe that “something precious” might be us. Then reality crashes back, cold and unwelcome, like a bucket of ice water over the embers of desire.

“This, us, before we go any farther, I need you to know that I didn’t do what you think I did back in high school,” Cole says, his voice barely above a whisper.

His words are like a punch to the gut. My body locks up, every muscle screaming in protest as I shove him away. The force of it surprises both of us. Cole stumbles back, his eyes wide with hurt and confusion.

“Thanks for reminding me,” I spit out, my voice thick with anger and a betrayal that cuts deeper than I ever could have imagined.

I shake my head, disgusted with myself for even momentarily falling for his charm, his touch, and the way he looked at me like I was the only woman in the world. I’ve been such a fool.

“I didn’t do it, Lo. I swear to you. It wasn’t me who called the cops.”

His denial is met with a humorless laugh. It claws its way up my throat, raw and ragged.

“You freaked out after I kissed you!” I practically scream the words, the years of pent-up hurt and resentment finally bubbling over. “You said I shouldn’t have been there with you and your friends. Then the cops show up, and you want me to believe it wasn’t you?”

The memory, vivid and humiliating, floods back. I was a couple of years younger than Cole, a naïve sophomore with a desperate crush on the senior racing star. I saw the pink in his cheeks when I kissed him, the flash of panic in his eyes. He was embarrassed. I embarrassed him. And he made me pay for it.

“I want you to know that I was bullied those last years of high school because of you!” I’m yelling now, the words tumbling out in a torrent. “I was never invited to any parties, never had any real friends. They labeled me a narc!”

I’m out of breath by the time I stop yelling, my chest heaving with emotion. It’s like I’m back in high school and being treatedlike a pariah all over again. As if high school wasn’t hard enough as a teenage girl, I was also public enemy number one. The hurt lingers like a festering wound that never healed.

“It wasn’t me,” he repeats, his voice firm.

“It had to be! You were the only one who had my brother’s number! You called my brother to come and drag me out of that party while his cop buddies busted up the rest of it.”

The accusation hangs in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. Cole’s expression hardens, his jaw clenching.

“Why would I do that when it was my fucking party?” he demands, his voice rising in anger.

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