Chapter Six – Lola
CHAPTER SIX
LOLA
It’s 5:00 in the morning, and the only thing racing harder than my pulse is my mind. I tossed and turned in this ridiculously comfortable bed all freaking night. The silky sheets whispering against my skin are a constant reminder that I am in Cole freaking Lawson’s house—in his bed.
Well, not his bed, technically. The guest room bed. But even the subtle scent of his cologne, clinging to the air like a phantom caress, mocks my inability to relax.
I throw off the covers, my bare legs tangling in the sheets for a moment before I kick them free. The Florida sun hasn't even thought about rising yet, but sleep, as elusive as a win for Cole lately, had abandoned me hours ago.
Padding across the room, I yank open the closet, half expecting to find a row of perfectly pressed suits and maybe a spare tuxedo. Instead, I find a jumble of old T-shirts, faded jeans, and a worn leather jacket. I guess all his fancy clothes must be in one of the other bedroom closets. He certainly has plenty of them in this palace.
My fingers brush against a soft cotton shirt, the team logo barely visible under years of wear and tear. I pull it out, hold it to my nose, and inhale the scent of him—a mix of motor oil, sunshine, and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Cole.
This is insane. I don’t even like Cole anymore. In fact, I hate him. The bastard ruined my life and then walked away from the damage he’d caused.
He owes me.
I nod, eyeing the row of T-shirts. He owes me a lot.
Without thinking, I strip off my own sleep shirt and pull on Cole’s. The fabric is cool and comforting against my skin. It hangs loose, a soft, oversized cocoon that smells like home—or, at least, what I imagine home might smell like if my home was inhabited by a racecar driver with a penchant for danger and a smile so bright that it rivals the stars.
I glance at myself in the mirror, my reflection a tangle of messy hair, sleep-deprived eyes, and Cole’s T-shirt that hangs to mid-thigh, leaving my legs bare. Yep, I’m a hot mess.
Seriously, Lola, what are you doing?
The answer, of course, is taking what I deserve. At the very least, Cole owes me a shirt I can ruin. Besides, sharing clothes is something couples do—even fake ones.
I think.
Hell, I don’t know. I need to clear my head. And the only way I know how to do that is with a wrench in my hand and the comforting hum of an engine in my ears.
Cole’s house is silent, the kind of stillness that only comes before dawn. As I creep down the stairs, my bare feet silent against the polished concrete, I half expect an alarm to blare and a security system to lock me in this sterile palace until Cole decides my fate.
But nothing comes.
Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic crash of the waves against the beach outside. I walk across the breezeway—yes, the breezeway—to his state-of-the-art garage. Guess the one attached to the house is just for show.
The garage door, a massive slab of steel and technology, looms before me. There’s a keypad, and before I can chicken out, my fingers fly across the buttons, punching in the code Cole had given me during his palace tour.
The door rumbles open, revealing a car lover’s paradise. Tool chests gleam under the lights, shelves are stacked with neatly labeled containers, and the air hangs thick with the scent of motor oil, tire rubber, and possibility.
And there, in the center of it all, is Eleanor.
Our Charger.
Bathed in the soft glow of several overhead lights, she looks more like a work of art than a machine. My heart aches with bittersweet longing as a jumble of memories and regrets come flooding back. He brought her home.
Without thinking, I hit the button for the stereo, the garage instantly filling with the gritty roar of Led Zeppelin. Cole had gotten me hooked on classic rock back in high school, and the familiar chords are like a lifeline, a bridge back to a time when things were simpler, when our biggest worry was a blown head gasket or a missed curfew.
I crank up the volume, letting the music wash over me as my body moves instinctively to the beat. I needed this. I needed the feel of tools in my hand, the satisfying click of a socket wrench as I work up a sweat.
Working on Eleanor has always been my escape, my way of silencing the noise in my head. And right now, that noise is a cacophony of doubt, fear, and the undeniable, terrifying pull I still felt toward the man whose house I am currently occupying.
I’ve tried to hate Cole, and most days, I succeed. But then I remember before it all went to shit, and I can’t help but smile at the memories of the boy who used to share his last Red Bull with me.
It was a terrible problem, and I had hoped dating Chad would have fixed it. I guess it did, to some degree. I loved Chad the best I could, but I never stopped thinking about Cole. I guess, in a sense, Chad was justified in dumping me. Not in the way he did it, but he was right, it was never going to work out. Because no matter what I think I want, life won’t allow it.
Hours melt away as I work on Eleanor, losing myself in the familiar ritual of cleaning, adjusting, and coaxing a machine back to life. She’s always been more than just a car; she’s a symbol of everything Cole and I had once shared. And everything we’d lost.
My hand moves on instinct, guided by years of experience and the muscle memory of a thousand shared hours in his dad’s garage back in high school.
I don’t even look up when the garage floods with the harsh glare of the rising sun, too lost in the task at hand, the rhythmic whir of the electric sander drowning out the world outside.
“Well, well, well,” a voice drawls from the doorway. “Who do we have here?”
I freeze, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. Slowly, I straighten, turning to face the intruder. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the morning light, is Cole and, who I’d venture to guess are his teammates.
They are all staring at me, their expressions a mixture of surprise and amusement. And then I remember what I’m wearing: Cole’s T-shirt, which had ridden up during my impromptu dance session, and what can only be described as a pair of very tiny panties.
My cheeks burn with a heat that has nothing to do with the Florida sun.
A blonde-haired guy with a charismatic smile takes a step forward, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Well, sugar, if I’d known you’d be here, I’d arrived a whole lot earlier.” He winks. “I like working in my pajamas, too.”
Before I can stammer out a response, Cole steps forward, his expression closed-off and unreadable.
“Now’s not the time, Cam,” he scolds, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “And she”—he gestures to me and frowns—“is mine.”
Holy shit, my ovaries clench. Did he just say mine ?
Of course, he did, stupid. He is playing fake boyfriend.
I swallow thickly. I didn’t think he would play it so well. For a second, I actually believed him.
The air crackles with tension. Is he… No. No way is he angry.
Cole’s gaze is locked on mine, a storm brewing in the depths of those whiskey-colored eyes.
He’s angry. He’s actually angry.
Everyone, even Cam, seems to sense that the air has shifted into something raw and unpredictable. Suddenly, my legs feel very bare as Cole’s gaze pins me in place. The amusement I usually see in his eyes has vanished and is replaced by something so intense that it sends a shiver down my spine.
He’s not pretending right now.
The realization hits me like a shot of NOS, jolting me out of my stupor. This isn’t part of the act. This is… real anger.
Finally, Cole breaks the silence, his voice clipped and sharp. “Get dressed, Lola. We have a meeting.”
The command, sharp and edged with rage, snaps me out of my paralysis. For a split second, I want to argue, to ask him just who the hell he thinks he’s bossing me around, but then I remember, he is technically my boss, and I don’t think this is the time or place to go head-to-head with him.
Without a word, I turn and flee as the weight of their stares burn into my back. Dashing up the stairs, Cole’s oversized T- shirt flaps around my thighs until I’m back in the sterile sanctuary of my room. I slam the door shut as I try controlling my breathing, ignoring the heady smell of Cole’s cologne hanging in the air. Ugh, I can’t even escape his presence when breathing.
Why? Why, God, do I have to always make such bad decisions?
Did I really need to put on his shirt and forego pants? Was it really that hot?
I pause for a second. Yes, yes, it was that hot. Besides, I couldn’t get my clothes dirty working on Eleanor. Better to have wear Cole’s shirt and make a mess of it instead.
But still, logic aside, I can’t stop replaying the scene in the garage. The way Cole had looked at me, the anger in his voice, the possessive glint in his eyes when he said I was his.
It’s an act. It has to be. We are putting on a show, playing a role, pretending to be something we aren’t. It is a contract, a business arrangement, a means to an end.
I just didn’t realize Cole would be that good at it. I also thought I’d have a little more time to prepare before we started this little charade.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of confusion and something suspiciously close to hope. Who am I kidding? This is Cole Lawson. The same Cole Lawson who broke my heart years ago. The same guy who thrives on competition, who pushes everyone away, who builds walls around his heart higher than the fences at any racetrack.
Yeah, that Cole.
I want nothing to do with that Cole.
Yep, I needed that reminder.
I yank open the drawer, grabbing the first decent outfit I can find: jeans, a T-shirt, and my trusty racing jacket. There’s no time for a shower or an existential crisis. I have a reputation to rebuild, and so far, I’m failing miserably.
I hurry down the stairs, the scent of coffee wafting from the kitchen, then through the breezeway where I can hear the muffled sound of voices coming from what I assume is Cole’s office in his state-of-the-art garage. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for the inevitable and the annoyance that comes with working alongside the man who still holds the power to piss me off and make me swoon in one breath.