Chapter Nine – Cole
CHAPTER NINE
COLE
I can still taste the margarita she threw in my face. Lime, tequila, and a healthy dose of Lola's signature defiance. If this wasn't a carefully constructed act—a performance for the cameras and our dwindling fan base—I would have bent her over my knee right there in the middle of the bar and spanked her ass until it was as red as her fiery temper.
No one throws a drink in my face.
No one.
“You should thank your friend, Cam, tomorrow, darling,” I grit out, my voice dangerously low as I shove open the door to my car. It’s childish, this surge of possessiveness and irrational anger at seeing her flirt, laugh, and breathe in the general vicinity of another man. But I can’t seem to stop it.
When the hell did I become this man? This jealous asshole who drags his fake girlfriend out of a conversation just because it’s driving him to the brink of insanity? When did Lola Quinn worm her way back under my skin, turning me into a parody of every overprotective boyfriend I've ever mocked?
I shove the thought away, disgusted with myself. Get a grip, Lawson. This isn’t real. This is a business transaction, a means to an end.
But as I glance down at Lola, her eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and what looks a hell of a lot like excitement, a different kind of transaction flashes through my mind. One that has nothing to do with sponsorships or winning races, and everything to do with those soft curves pressed against my chest and the lingering scent of tequila and trouble.
I shake my head, clearing the image away.
Focus.
“Get in,” I command, shoving open the passenger door and setting her on her feet.
She crosses her arms, her expression mutinous. “You know, for a guy who claims to hate drama, you sure seem to attract a lot of it.”
“Get. In. The. Car. Lola,” I repeat, my voice dangerously low. I’m not playing around.
She hesitates, then with a sigh that sounds suspiciously like a growl, she climbs into the car. I slam the door shut behind her, the sound echoing in the silence that stretches between us.
I can’t get it out of my head as I round the hood of my car to get in. It’s her fault. This whole messed-up situation, this unwelcome surge of emotion, the way my body is reacting to her as if she's oxygen, and I haven’t taken a single fucking breath in years.
It's all her fault.
Crazy doesn't even begin to cover this situation.
We drive to my house in silence, the air thick with unspoken words and simmering tension. Lola stares out her window, face turned away from me, a stubborn set to her jaw that I simultaneously want to kiss and hate. And me? I clench the steering wheel, my knuckles white, focusing on the road and the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers as they battle against a sudden downpour. Neither of us is budging, unwilling to be the first to break the silence, to offer a concession or even think about the word sorry .
Because, let’s be real, I have nothing to be sorry for. She was flirting with Cam—laughing that throaty laugh that does unholy things to my insides. I did what any other boyfriend—fake or not—would do. I handled the situation.
Maybe a little rougher than necessary, but semantics.
Glancing at Lola, I find the reason for her sudden silence. She’s fallen asleep, her cheek pressed against the cool glass of the window, her lips slightly parted as if she’s dreaming. Her eyelashes, thick and dark against her pale skin, cast shadows on her cheeks, and for a moment, I'm struck by how young she looks, how vulnerable. It’s a side of her I haven’t seen in years, a stark contrast to the fiery, take-no-prisoners woman who nearly took out half the supermarket parking lot in her pajamas.
A chuckle escapes my lips before I can stop it. Damn, she’s a mess. But she’s my mess.
And for the first time since she tossed that margarita in my face, I feel a sliver of gratitude for the silence. At least I don’t have to listen to her scathing retorts, her witty comebacks, her uncanny ability to see right through my carefully constructed fa?ade. At least for now, there's peace.
A fragile, temporary peace that will no doubt shatter the moment she opens those damn doe eyes of hers.
Finally, I pull into the quiet sanctuary of my garage, the automatic lights flicking on to reveal Lola still dead to the world in the passenger seat.
Great. Just great.
I consider my options, weighing the potential consequences like a calculated risk on the track. Do I wake her? Risk her unleashing a torrent of fiery words, those emerald eyes blazing with righteous anger? Or do I carry her into the house and put her to bed? Risk the feel of her in my arms, the weight of her pressing against me, the undeniable urge to bury my face in her soft hair and inhale the scent of her—citrus and something uniquely, infuriatingly Lola?
Decisions, decisions.
Fuck it. I'm Cole Lawson. I don't back down from a challenge, even if that challenge involves navigating the minefield of Lola Quinn's unconscious mind.
Slowly, cautiously, I open the passenger door. It’s like disturbing a sleeping tiger—one that smells faintly of tequila and whole lot like of lingering regret. Lola slumps to the side, nearly tumbling into my lap. Guess that makes the decision for me.
Scooping her up, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back, I try to ignore the way her head falls against my chest, the warmth of her breath against my neck. She mumbles something incoherent about flossing and unicorns, her words muffled against my shirt.
Who knows what goes on in that head of hers? I stopped trying to figure Lola out years ago. Some mysteries—especially the ones with curves like hers—are best left unsolved.
For now, I'll settle for the feel of her weight in my arms, the unexpected rightness of it all, as I carry her inside. I'll pretend this fragile truce isn't built on a foundation of lies, margaritas, tequila shots, and a healthy dose of mutual insanity.
Momentarily, I'll just enjoy the silence.
Until, of course, there is no more silence.
The illusion shatters—as I should have known it would—a mere five seconds after I step inside.
“I hope you know your breath smells like beer and contaminated bar nuts,” Lola mumbles, her voice muffled against my chest.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “You’re welcome for carrying your drunk ass from the car, Sleeping Beauty,” I retort, my voice drier than a mouthful of sawdust.
“Please,” she slurs, her breath warm against my neck, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the chill in the air. “I’ve seen those biceps. You could bench press two of me, easily.”
I highly doubt that—Lola’s got curves that could distract a monk, and a surprising amount of muscle under that feisty exterior—but I don’t correct her. Instead, I keep walking, heading toward the sanctuary of my bedroom.
“Just go back to sleep, Lola,” I say, my voice softening despite my best intentions.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she shoots back, her words laced with a surprising amount of venom for someone who’s half-unconscious.
For the love of… “I’m not telling you what to do. It was a simple request.”
“Well, request not granted,” she mumbles, shifting slightly in my arms. “Where are you taking me anyway?”
“My room.”
Her head pops up, eyes wide and wary despite the glaze of tequila. “Your room? Why not my room?”
I freeze, my mind scrambling for a response. Her question hangs in the air, heavy with implications and the unspoken history that simmers between us like a live wire.
Yeah, Cole. It’s a valid question. Why not her room?
“I have an early meeting tomorrow,” I say, my voice betraying nothing of the internal battle raging within me. “In case you’re still asleep when the team gets here, it would be better for them to find you… here. In my room. To keep up appearances and all that.”
The words taste like ash in my mouth, even as I mentally high-five myself for coming up with a semi-plausible excuse on such short notice. There’s just one tiny problem: It’s a complete and utter lie. I don’t have a meeting tomorrow. Hell, I don’t even have pants picked out for tomorrow. But Lola doesn’t need to know that.
“Oh,” she murmurs, her breath tickling my ear. For someone who just accused me of having dragon breath, she sure seems to be enjoying our close proximity. “Are you sleeping here, too?”
My cock, the traitorous bastard, springs to attention at the thought, at the image that flashes through my mind: Lola, tangled in my sheets, those long legs…
I mentally slap myself. “No,” I say, my voice a little rougher than intended. “I’ll sleep in another one of the guest rooms.”
“What if they come in and find you in another bed?” she asks, her voice small and uncertain.
It’s almost cute how concerned she sounds about maintaining our fake love story. Almost. “They won’t,” I say, forcing myself to sound confident, even as my pulse quickens at the thought of her worrying about me, about us.
“But what if they do?” she persists, her fingers digging lightly into my shoulder.
“They won’t, Lola,” I say, my patience wearing thin. “I don’t sleep late.”
“But what if you do… tomorrow?”
Every muscle in my body tightens, every nerve ending on high alert. This close to her, her scent wrapping around me like a forbidden drug, it’s getting harder to remember why I’m fighting this, why I should push her away.
“I won’t,” I growl, my voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Because there is no meeting. No one is coming over tomorrow.”
Her eyes widen, a mixture of surprise and something unnervingly close to amusement dancing in their emerald depths. “You lied?”
I let out a long-suffering sigh, feeling like an idiot teenager caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I don’t know, okay? Maybe I had too much to drink.”
It’s a pathetic excuse, and we both know it. I had one beer—okay, maybe it was a really big beer—but I doubt Lola was keeping track of my alcohol intake while she was busy charming the pants off my best friend. Plus, there’s no way I would drive if I had too much to drink.
“So, no one is coming in the morning?” she asks, her voice softer now, losing some of its earlier bite.
“No.”
“But you’re still putting me to sleep… in your bed,” she says, her gaze darting around the room as if just noticing where we are.
“Mm-hmm.”
It’s all I can manage, all I can force past the sudden lump in my throat. I’m suddenly terrifyingly aware of her in a way I haven’t been since… well, since the last time we were in a room alone together. The air crackles with unspoken tension, every breath I take laced with the intoxicating scent of her perfume and something far more dangerous: the memory of what it felt like to touch her, to taste her, to lose myself in the heat of her gaze.
I’m in dangerous territory here, and I know it.
Turning on the bedside lamp, I flood the room with soft, golden light, hoping to dispel some of the tension that’s wound tighter than a finish line sprint. The sleek gray sheets, the silver accents, the framed photos of my childhood racing trophies—it’s a side of me I rarely share, a glimpse behind the carefully curated image of Cole Lawson, Racing Prodigy.
“It’s… not white,” Lola observes, her voice hushed with surprise.
“No,” I say, a wry smile playing on my lips. “It isn’t.”
“Why?”
I shrug, suddenly feeling self-conscious, like she’s peering into a part of me I keep hidden from the world. I place her gently on the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight.
“In here,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, “I’m not on display for the world. In here, I can just… be me.”
She raises an eyebrow, her gaze sweeping across the room again, lingering on the trophies, the framed racing posters, and the worn copy of The Art of Racing in the Rain sitting on my nightstand. “And this is you?” she asks, her voice laced with a curiosity that both thrills and terrifies me. “All of this is the real Cole Lawson?”
I nod, feeling a blush creep up my neck. Me, who laughs in the face of danger, who thrives on adrenaline and competition, reduced to a blushing schoolboy under the intensity of her gaze.
I walk to the dresser, pull open a drawer, and grab the first T-shirt my fingers touch. It’s soft, worn thin with countless washes, and it smells faintly of my cologne and engine oil. I toss it on the bed, close enough that she can smell it and feel the lingering warmth of me in the fabric.
“For in the morning,” I say, my voice a husky whisper that seems to hang in the air between us. “Just in case.”
And then, before I can overthink it, before I do something stupid like kiss the hesitant smile off her lips, I turn and walk out of the room, closing the door softly behind me.
My room. My sanctuary. A space I’ve fiercely guarded from the outside world, from the prying eyes and relentless expectations that come with being Cole Lawson.
And now, for better or worse, I’ve invited her in.