Chapter Ten – Lola
CHAPTER TEN
LOLA
My head throbs, a relentless beat that mirrors the pounding in my temples. Groaning, I crack one eye open, then the other, squinting against the unfamiliar light streaming through the window. The room swims into focus: sleek modern furniture, navy blue walls, a distinct lack of stuffed animals or fuzzy pink anything.
Where in the fresh hell…?
Then, it hits me, a shot of pure panic straight to my tequila-soaked brain. Cole. His scent—that intoxicating mix of cologne, gasoline, and something uniquely him—clings to the air, to the sheets, to the oversized T-shirt I’m currently drowning in.
Cole’s T-shirt. On my body. In Cole’s bed.
Oh, God. I’m going to die. And it’s going to be a death by embarrassment, probably featured on the cover of every gossip rag in the country. Headline: Lola Quinn: Racing’s Bad Girl Caught Between Two Heartthrob Drivers!
Memories of the previous night, tequila-soaked and blurry around the edges, flood back in a disjointed rush: the bar, Cam’s too-perceptive questions, my loose-lipped confessions, the feel of Cole’s arms around me as he carried me out of there like I weighed less than a feather...
The heat that flares in my cheeks has nothing to do with the hangover.
I sit up, the world tilting precariously as I try to untangle myself from the sheets. They’re soft, luxurious, most likely a ridiculously high thread count… just like everything else in Cole’s meticulously curated life. I, on the other hand, feel like I’ve been run over by a fleet of very judgmental bulldozers.
It’s official: I’m never drinking tequila again.
I need to get out of here. Now.
But as I swing my bare legs over the side of the bed, I’m hit with the horrifying realization that “getting out of here” requires a whole lot more stealth than I possess at this particular moment. Especially since the only thing standing between me and a complete meltdown is this flimsy T-shirt.
How drunk was I last night?
The question isn’t just about the tequila, though God knows I downed enough of that to fuel a small rocket launch. No, I think I was drunk on Cole, too. It’s the way he looked at me, his gaze lingering on my face, my lips, sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the morning chill and everything to do with that particular memory. It’s the way his voice softened when he said my name—the sound a caress against my skin. It’s the way his hands lingered on my waist, his touch a searing brand even through the fabric of his shirt.
I’ve spent the last six years convincing myself that what we had was just a childhood crush, a pit stop on the road to bigger and better things. But the memory of his touch, the way his scent still wraps around me like a comforting blanket, is doing a damn good job of unraveling all my carefully constructed defenses.
I scan the room, my gaze landing on a solitary framed picture on the nightstand. It’s the only personal touch in this otherwise starkly decorated space, a splash of color against the sleek gray, navy, and chrome. Curiosity piqued, I reach for it, my fingers brushing against the cool metal frame.
A younger Cole grins back at me, his eyes crinkled at the corners, his arm slung around… me.
Us.
My breath catches in my throat. I remember that day vividly: the afternoon sun slanting through the open garage door, the smell of engine grease and possibility hanging in the air. We had just finished restoring Eleanor, our pride and joy, our shared dream. We were both covered in grime, our faces flushed with triumph, our smiles as bright as the chrome gleaming on the Charger behind us.
My heart aches with a bittersweet pang of longing. He’d kept it. All these years, he’d kept this picture.
Why?
Was it because of Eleanor? A simple memento of a shared accomplishment, a reminder of a simpler time before everything went to hell? Or was it because of… me?
I trace the outline of my younger self in the picture, my smile wide and carefree, my eyes shining with a love that’s as raw and reckless as the engine we’d just brought back to life. My fingers linger on the image of Cole, his arm slung around my shoulders, his expression a mixture of pride and something softer. It makes my breath catch in my throat even now.
For a moment, the years melt away, and I’m back in his dad’s garage. The scent of oil and gasoline is heavy in the air, the sound of classic rock blaring from a beat-up boombox. I can almost feel the weight of Cole’s hand brushing mine as we both reach for the same wrench, the spark that ignites between us as our fingers touch, the unspoken promise in his gaze.
Back then, everything seemed so simple, so full of hope and possibility. We were invincible, fueled by shared dreams and a love that felt so powerful, so consuming, that it would surely stand the test of time.
And then Cole got his big break, a chance to race professionally, to chase the dream we’d both shared. But somewhere along the way, the dream morphed into something else, something that didn’t include me. He left me behind, my heart a casualty of his ambition, a trophy discarded on the side of the road as he sped toward the checkered flag.
He chose fame over you, Lola. The thought whispers through my mind, a bitter reminder of the pain I’ve tried so hard to forget. Don’t forget that.
But the sight of this picture, the warmth in his eyes and the undeniable joy radiating from both of us, chips away at the bitterness I’ve held onto for so long. Maybe, just maybe, Cole isn’t the monster I’d painted him to be. Maybe, beneath the swagger and the carefully cultivated image, he’s still the boy who shares my love for speed, grease, and the intoxicating thrill of a dream coming true.
And maybe, there’s still a chance for us to rewrite our story.
Don’t be an idiot. Another voice, cold and cynical, cuts through the haze of nostalgia. You’re letting the tequila hangover and a dusty old picture cloud your judgment.
But as I place the photo back on the nightstand, a sliver of hope, fragile and tentative, blooms in my chest. It’s a dangerous feeling, hope. But after the year I’ve had, after the wreckage of my life, maybe a little danger is exactly what I need.
Right now, though, I need coffee. Strong coffee. And maybe a miracle.
I slip out of bed, the cool air conditioning sending goose bumps across my bare skin. Cole’s T-shirt hangs loose on my frame, a comforting weight that smells like him, like home.
As I pad down the stairs, drawn by the promise of caffeine and a much-needed escape from the emotional minefield that is Cole’s bedroom, the sound of rhythmic breathing pulls me toward the living room. And there, sprawled on the couch like a fallen god, is Cole.
He’s still fast asleep, his chest bare, the sheet he’d apparently kicked off during the night pooled on the floor beside him. The morning light streaming through the window illuminates the sculpted planes of his chest, the hard lines of his abdomen, and the faint dusting of hair that disappears below the waistband of his sweatpants.
Holy hell.
My breath hitches, my body betraying me with a surge of pure, unadulterated desire. I’m pretty sure I’m drooling a little as I take him in. He looks so peaceful, so vulnerable, so different from the cocky, guarded race car driver I know. The Cole sleeping on this couch is the Cole I remember from those late nights in his dad’s garage, the Cole who used to whisper dreams into my ear and make my heart race faster than any engine ever could.
Don’t even think about it .
I try to obey, I really do. But my feet have a mind of their own, carrying me closer, until I’m standing just inches away from the sleeping lion. I tiptoe past him, my gaze lingering on the way his dark hair curls slightly against his forehead, the way his lips are parted in sleep, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, each movement as tempting as the last.
I’m opening old wounds, but apparently, I just can’t help myself.
Yes, you can, dumbass. Just walk away. Exactly like he did.
That stark reminder shuts down my ridiculous heart and makes me take a step back. Cole and I are done. The past is in the past, and there is no going back. Ever. Taylor Swift’s “We Are Never Getting Back Together” should be the soundtrack for my life right now. I need all the reminders I can get. And then as if it were summoned by my thoughts, the smoke detector starts screaming.
With a resigned sigh and a sense of urgency, I make my way to the kitchen, following the insistent beeping like a homing beacon, and quickly find the source of the smoke detector’s distress. A frying pan sits on the stove, a sad, blackened testament to Cole’s culinary skills—or lack thereof. The eggs inside are a near-charcoaled mess, the stench of burnt protein filling the air.
I wave a dishtowel frantically at the offending device, my heart pounding in my chest—and not just because of the smoke detector. These eggs are beyond saving, a culinary crime scene that would make Gordon Ramsay weep. What in the world was Cole doing starting breakfast and then going back to sleep? Was he trying to burn the house down? Or was this some kind of elaborate revenge plot for the margarita incident?
“What the?—”
Cole’s voice, a husky murmur laced with sleep, startles me. I whirl around to find him standing in the doorway, his eyes bleary with sleep, his hair a tousled mess that would make a boy band member weep with envy. He’s still shirtless, his bare chest on full display, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe, how to think, how to do anything but stare at the sculpted perfection of his body, the way the morning light dances across his tanned skin.
Focus, Lola. My inner voice snaps me back to reality, though it’s a losing battle against the heat flaring in my cheeks and other less mentionable places. I force myself to look away from the six-pack abs that could grate cheese and meet his gaze instead.
Cole takes in the scene—the smoking pan, the screeching alarm, my frazzled appearance—and chuckles, a low rumble that vibrates through me like a finely tuned engine. “Guess I forgot about those, huh?” he says, his voice rough with sleep, his grin crooked and utterly disarming.
“You think?” I manage, my voice a little breathless, my brain still short-circuiting from the combination of his bare chest and that panty-melting chuckle.
He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture sending another unwelcome jolt of lust through me. “Looks like we’re going out for breakfast,” he says, his gaze meeting mine with a spark of something I can’t quite decipher.
He steps closer, and the air between us crackles with a tension that has nothing to do with the burnt eggs. “Unless you’d rather have cereal,” he says, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sends goose bumps erupting across my skin.
“Cereal sounds good,” I say, backing away, desperate for some distance, for some semblance of sanity. “And maybe a hazmat suit.” I gesture towards the smoking pan. “For whoever has to clean up that disaster.”
Cole laughs a full-bodied sound that fills the kitchen, banishing the lingering scent of burnt eggs and replacing it with something far more intoxicating: the scent of possibility.
“Don’t worry,” he says, his grin widening. “I’ll clean it up.” He grabs the pan, tossing it into the sink with a clatter. “You go get dressed. I’ll meet you in the garage in ten.”
And with that, he turns and disappears back into the hallway, leaving me standing there, my heart racing, my mind spinning, and my body buzzing with an awareness that is simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.