Chapter Five – Lola
CHAPTER FIVE
LOLA
“I can’t believe my life has come to this,” I mutter, digging my fingers into the plush leather interior of Cole Lawson’s vintage Mustang like it’s a life raft in a sea of storms. Except the only one drowning right now is me.
It doesn’t help that the Florida sun is beating down on us, turning the car into a sauna. Then again, I’m pretty sure the main source of heat is radiating off Cole. He’s all relaxed confidence behind the wheel, tanned forearms flexing as he shifts gears, a lock of dark hair falling carelessly over his forehead. I have to resist the urge to reach out and brush it away, which I’m sure is only because I want his vision unobstructed while he drives. Not because that dark hair looks soft and silky, unlike the five-o-clock shadow on his jaw or the way his lips move as he hums along to a classic rock song on the radio.
No! He is not hot—at all. Not his biceps, stubble, or lips—definitely not his forearms. The man is as disgusting as they come—especially with his shitty attitude.
But dammit if those biceps aren’t on full display every time he shifts gears, the worn fabric of his T-shirt stretching taut across his chest. The subtle scent of his cologne, something woodsy and expensive, fills my senses and makes me feel lightheaded.
Or maybe that’s just the humidity.
That’s it. I’m getting sick. I must have caught something while being held in that musty jail cell. It’s the only logical explanation for ogling a man I hate while driving to his house—well, calling it a “house” feels like calling a Ferrari a “car.” It’s a mansion, a palace, a temple of bachelorhood built on a foundation of speed, testosterone, and probably a few broken hearts. I’d seen it before when I’d driven by and flipped him off a few times. Not to mention all the times I Google-Earthed it and tried zooming in on the new pool he was putting in.
Don’t judge me. Everyone does it. Stalking people you hate is research. Someone has to break in and pee in his pool occasionally. Okay. Fine. I never peed in his pool, but I thought about it. See my level of restraint? I’m practically a saint.
Ugh. Why am I doing this? Was it really so bad living with Brian and his demon dog? I could sacrifice a pair of shoes every now and then, couldn’t I?
I think of the boots that I only wore once.
No, no, I can’t. Nor can I sleep on that mattress ever again.
I also can’t just keep sitting on the couch, shoveling ice cream and cheesecake down my throat while YouTubing how to make voodoo dolls. Even I know that’s not healthy.
But in all honesty, I have to admit there’s a part of me that wants this. I want the roar of the engine, the thrill of the competition, the chance to prove myself in a world that has written me off as difficult, emotional woman scorned.
Chad Tane can kiss my ass six ways from Sunday.
It’s his fault that Cole is the only guy in the industry who is crazy enough to work with me after the whispers started. “Unstable.” “Difficult to work with.” “Sleeping her way to the top.”
I hope they all get chlamydia with a mild case of the flu.
I’m making a vow right now that I will never date another coworker—more specifically, a driver—ever again. I will never let someone use a personal relationship against my career. Well, except for this fake dating arrangement.
Maybe fake dating Cole won’t be so bad. No one will hit on me, and apart from the public eye, I can still be as mean to Cole as I want. We have a deal. He can’t fire me just because I don’t like what he makes for dinner or think his TV shows are lame.
We can be total strangers when the cameras and crew aren’t around. His mansion is big enough that I’ll probably never see him at the house.
It’ll be the perfect relationship.
I can save my career—and reluctantly Cole’s—all while making good money. I need to replenish my savings, after all.
Maybe the dipshit had a decent idea after all.
Said dipshit shifts in his seat, his hand brushing against my arm, sending chills along where he made contact. See? I’m allergic to Cole and his touch.
As if reading my mind, Cole glances over at me, his eyes, the color of aged whiskey and just as potent, sparkling with amusement.
“You okay over there, Quinn?” His voice is a low rumble, laced with that familiar Southern drawl that always made me think of those sexy cowboys on that TV show.
“Peachy,” I lie. “Just admiring the vintage upholstery. It’s got that… new car smell.”
Cole’s grin widens, and for a ridiculous moment, I want to lean over and k—I mean smack his face.
Seriously, the heat is messing with me. Or whatever illness I caught in jail.
“I try to keep it classy,” Cole says, his gaze lingering on me for a beat too long. “Unlike someone I know, who seems to prefer dented coffee mugs and questionable engine parts as decoration.”
He’s referring to my temporary digs at my brother’s place. In my defense, the coffee mug wasn’t dented. It was…artistically distressed.
“Don’t judge a woman’s decorating choices until you’ve seen her trophy collection, Lawson,” I shoot back. I might not be a racecar driver, but the one I worked for had just as many, if not more, than Cole—thanks to me.
The corner of his lip twitches. “I’m not judging. Just…sharing my observations.”
He can share them with someone else. I don’t want to hear it.
As we cross the causeway into Bal Harbour, the world shifts. Gone are the modest beach bungalows, replaced by sprawling estates that scream “new money” and “I peaked in high school.” Not that I can judge. I’d grown up in this town, a scholarship kid in a world of trust funds and designer labels. My family's little two-story house had stuck out like a grease stain on a silk scarf.
But as we pull up to Cole’s place… I realize this is on whole nother level. Even for Bal Harbour.
It’s a fortress of glass and steel, perched on the edge of the beach as if daring the ocean to try and touch it. An infinity pool shimmers like liquid turquoise, and a four-car garage that looks more like a luxury showroom gleams in the afternoon sun. The roar of the surf, the salty tang of the ocean air, even the blinding white of the sand, all felt heightened, charged with an energy that mirrored the chaos brewing inside of me.
And there, nestled in a place of honor, is Eleanor.
My breath hitches.
The 1970 Charger, our high school project—our shared dream—stood bathed in the golden light, as beautiful and wild as the day we’d finished rebuilding her. I could almost smell the faint scent of engine oil and hear the purr of the engine, a symphony of power and potential.
But as I step out of the car, my legs shaking a little, and into Cole Lawson's world, I know this rebuild isn’t going to be anything like it was in high school. Gone are the days when Cole is my best friend and I think he is the love of my life.
Cole’s gaze meets mine, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say something that will ruin the moment, but he doesn’t. He just keeps quiet, allowing me a rare, unguarded glimpse into whiskey-colored eyes. Maybe he’s thinking back on those days, too.
“Come on in. I’ll show you around,” he finally says, breaking the comfortable silence.
My heart hammers in a wild rhythm as I nod and follow him into the house. The foyer is a vast expanse of polished concrete and soaring ceilings, a minimalist temple devoid of warmth or personality. It feels less like a home and more like a very expensive showroom.
“So,” I say, my voice echoing slightly in the vast emptiness, “I see you’ve embraced the whole minimalist thing.”
“It’s…practical,” Cole says, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He looks strangely out of place in his own home, like a rogue splash of color on a stark white canvas.
“Right. Practical.” I resist the urge to point out that a padded cell is also practical if your goal is to completely erase all evidence of a personality.
He leads me through the cavernous living room, the sound of my footsteps echoing against the polished marble floor, a stark counterpoint to the sterile white that dominates the space. White leather sofas, more sculpture than furniture, stand stiffly against the walls, looking as inviting as an operating table. We pass a grand staircase, its sweeping curves crafted from marble so white it seems to glow in the dim light, a testament to the wealth and extravagance—and perhaps a touch of coldness—that permeates every inch of this house. Further on, a massive dining table, polished to a blinding sheen and set with enough silverware to host a small army, sits untouched, likely a mere decorative element in this pristine, unlived-in environment. But my gaze is drawn past it all, toward the closed door at the end of the hallway, a splash of deep mahogany against the stark white walls. He stops in front of it, his hand hovering over the ornate brass knob.
“This is you,” he clips out like showing me around is a headache.
I push open the door, bracing myself for more minimalist purgatory, but to my surprise, the room isn’t completely devoid of personality. Sure, the walls are white, the furniture sleek and modern, but there is a large window overlooking the ocean and a worn, leather armchair tucked into a corner.
“It’s… nice.” I try to sound neutral. It’s definitely a step up from Brian’s apartment.
“You can personalize it.” His gaze fixes on a spot somewhere over my shoulder. “Make it your own.”
“Right. Make it my own.” The last thing I want is to put down roots in Cole Lawson’s house, even if it is just a temporary arrangement. But the thought of adding a splash of color to this sterile environment and leaving my mark on his carefully controlled world is undeniably tempting.
“So,” Cole says, clearing his throat. “I’ll, uh, let you get settled. The bathroom’s through there. Help yourself to whatever you need.”
He hovers in the doorway, his gaze lingering on me for a beat too long.
Well, now, we certainly can’t have that.
“Thanks,” I clip out. “I think I’ll take a shower. This place reminds me too much of a jail cell. I need to wash off the bad mojo.”
And call my brother. He’s liable to think someone kidnapped me from the apartment. I already have enough bullshit to deal with. I don’t need more drama from him.
“What?”
I forgot Cole was still standing there.
I shake my head. “Never mind.” And then I slam the door in his face.