Page 56 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

I look at her then, seeing the truth in her eyes. “I never walked away because of racing, Lola. It was always you. I always wanted you. But I had to protect my career, and I… I couldn’t drag you into that mess.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, processing. Then she asks, “Why now? Why tell me this now?”

“Because I’m tired of secrets,” I say, my voice stronger now. “Because you deserve the truth. And because… because I love you, Lola. All of you. And I want you to know all of me. The good and the bad.”

Lola looks out over the city lights, then back at me. There are tears in her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Thank you for telling me,” she says. “It doesn’t change how I feel about you, Cole. If anything, it makes me love you more.”

I pull her close, relief washing over me. “I’m sorry,” I murmur into her hair. “I’m sorry for everything.”

She leans back, meeting my gaze. “No more secrets?”

I nod, feeling lighter than I have in years. “No more secrets. Just us, facing whatever comes next. Together.”

Lola smiles, and it’s like the sun breaking through clouds. “Together,” she agrees.

CHAPTER TWENTY- THREE

LOLA

The smellof fresh paint hits me like a love potion, a heady cocktail of chemicals and possibilities that makes my heart do backflips. It mingles with the faint aroma of Cole’s cologne, which seems to have taken up permanent residence in every nook and cranny of this house, wrapping around me like a warm hug.

His house. Our house?

When did his house start feeling like home? When did he start feeling like… everything?

I shake my head, but this time, it’s more of a dreamy sway. There’s no point trying to banish thoughts of his touch or the warmth of his lips against my forehead or the way his eyes went all soft and melty when he called me his “partner” during that post-race interview. Those memories are tattooed on my heart now.

Maybe I am an idiot, but what a glorious idiot to be. Sure, it started as an act, a carefully crafted illusion to sell a narrative and appease sponsors. But now? Now, it feels as real as the paint dripping from my brush.

The truth sings in the back of my mind, a happy little tune that makes me want to dance. It’s not all an act anymore.Something real is blooming between us, a spark of connection that’s setting off fireworks in my chest and making my heart do the cha-cha.

I dip the paintbrush into the can, a vibrant shade of pink aptly namedLucky 13. It feels like destiny. I’d found it at the hardware store earlier today, the paint chip practically winking at me from the display of color swatches.

“This one,” I’d told the salesclerk, grinning like I’d won the lottery. “I’ll take this one. And a gallon of your finest primer. That minimalist white’s gotta go.”

Now, standing in the middle of Cole’s soon-to-be-not-so-sterile guest room, a roller in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, I feel a surge of giddy excitement. Cole’s at a meeting with his sponsors, leaving me alone to transform his house.

The first stroke of pink against the pristine white wall feels like writing a love letter. It’s a declaration of… something. Hope? Love? The future? Whatever it is, it’s making my insides feel as fizzy as a glass of champagne.

As the color spreads, transforming the room from a sterile white box into something warmer, more vibrant, more us, a bubble of laughter escapes me. What am I doing? This is crazy. I’m falling for him. Again. And you know what? It feels amazing.

Sure, there are memories of the past, of heartbreak and whispers. But they feel distant now, like watching storm clouds from inside a cozy, love-filled bubble.

This might have started as a job, a contract, a temporary escape from reality. But now? Now, it feels like the beginning of something wonderful, something long overdue.

And you know what? I’m ready for it. Bring it on, Cole Lawson. Let’s paint this town, and your house, pink with love.

As I’m putting the finishing touches on my pink masterpiece, my phone buzzes on the windowsill. Cole’s name flashes on the screen, and my heart does a little salsa dance in my chest.

Get it together, Lola. You’re a grown woman, not a lovesick teenager.

But who am I kidding? I dive for the phone like it’s the checkered flag at the Indy 500.

“Hey, Lawson,” I answer, aiming for casual and landing somewhere between breathless and giggly. Nailed it.

“Hey, Lola.” His voice, even through the phone, sends shivers down my spine. It’s like warm honey drizzled over my soul. Is that even a thing? Who cares? I’m high on paint fumes and love.

“How’s the redecorating going?” he asks, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

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