Page 58 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

But it’s not Cole. It’s an unknown number.

Curiosity officially piqued, especially when I notice the send time of 2:13, I open the message. And just like that, my little pink bubble bursts.

It’s a picture of Cole, his arm slung casually around a stunning blonde woman, her laughter echoing in the caption beneath the photo:Another sponsor event, another conquest. Cole Lawson never disappoints.

My stomach lurches, the paintbrush slipping from my grasp. It clatters to the floor, splatteringLucky 13pink across the pristine white carpet like drops of blood. Oops. Not sorry this time either.

The air, thick with the scent of fresh paint and the remnants of Cole’s cologne, which I was waxing poetically about moments ago, suddenly feels suffocating. The carefully constructed fantasy I’d been building, already wobbling on shaky ground, comes crashing down around me.

He’s playing you, Lola. He’s been playing you all along.

The whispers of doubt, the ghosts of past betrayals, rise up to mock me, their voices a chorus of bitter vindication. I stare at the picture on my phone, at Cole’s easy smile, at the way his hand rests possessively on the blonde’s waist, and feel a wave of nausea wash over me.

Fake relationship. Fake kisses. Fake promises. FakeI love you.

The words echo in my head, a bitter mantra to ward off the pain that’s threatening to overwhelm me. I drop the phone, the screen cracking as it hits the floor. A physical manifestation of the shattering of my own fragile hope.

The pink on the walls, once a symbol of new beginnings and second chances, now feels like a cruel joke. A mocking reminder of my stupidity. How could I have let myself fall for this again? How could I have been so blind?

Get out, Lola. Get out now before he breaks your heart again.

It’s definitely too late for that, though.

As I flee the room, the paint fumes heavy in the air, I know that this time, I won’t be leaving empty-handed. This time, I’m taking my revenge. Because if Cole Lawson thinks he can play me for a fool, he’s about to learn that hell hath no fury like a woman with a paintbrush and a broken heart.

I’m not running, though. I said I would fight for us. I just thought it was Chad that I’d be up against, not Cole. But here we are…

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

LOLA

The scentof garlic and simmering tomatoes, a sensory assault on my carefully constructed emotional fortress, wafts in from the kitchen, taunting me with a reminder of Cole’s infuriating domesticity.

Domesticity? Seriously, Lola? The man probably had a personal chef tucked away somewhere in this minimalist palace, ready to whip up gourmet meals on demand.

I slam the laptop shut, the sharp sound a punctuation mark to the endless stream of data analysis and race simulations I’ve been immersed in for the past… how many hours? I glance at the clock on the wall, the red numerals mocking me with their indifference to my emotional turmoil.

Cole has been home for almost four hours, and in those four hours, I’ve managed to avoid him with the skill of a seasoned ninja. It helps that his house is the size of a small airport, with enough rooms and hallways to get lost in for days. But even within these sprawling confines, I can feel his presence, a constant, unsettling hum of energy that makes my skin tingle and my heart race.

Every time I hear his footsteps echoing down the hallway, every time I catch a whiff of his cologne or glimpse his shadowmoving across the wall, I have to fight the urge to confront him, to demand an explanation for that damn photo.

The photo.

The image, a cruel reminder of my own naïvete, is burned in my mind, a constant loop of betrayal and hurt. Cole, with his arm slung casually around a stunning blonde, his smile easy and familiar, her laughter echoing in the caption:Another sponsor event, another conquest. Cole Lawson never disappoints.

The words, sharp as shards of glass, twist in my gut, a bitter reminder of everything I’ve tried to forget.

You knew better.

But a part of me, the foolish, hopeful part, dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was different. That maybe this time, he was being… real.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I push away from the desk, my legs stiff from hours of sitting, my head throbbing with a dull ache that has nothing to do with spending hours looking at the screen after painting my room and everything to do with the emotional rollercoaster I am on.

The scent of garlic and herbs intensifies as I approach the kitchen, drawing me in like a moth to a flame. Cole, clad in a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt that does very little to hide the sculpted muscles of his chest, stands at the stove, his back to me. He’s stirring something in a pot, his movements fluid and confident, the picture of domestic bliss.

I clear my throat, announcing my presence. Cole turns, a smile spreading across his face, his eyes lighting up with a warmth that makes my stomach flip.

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