Chapter Twenty- Three – Lola
CHAPTER TWENTY- THREE
LOLA
The smell of fresh paint hits me like a love potion, a heady cocktail of chemicals and possibilities that makes my heart do backflips. It mingles with the faint aroma of Cole’s cologne, which seems to have taken up permanent residence in every nook and cranny of this house, wrapping around me like a warm hug.
His house. Our house?
When did his house start feeling like home? When did he start feeling like… everything?
I shake my head, but this time, it’s more of a dreamy sway. There’s no point trying to banish thoughts of his touch or the warmth of his lips against my forehead or the way his eyes went all soft and melty when he called me his “partner” during that post-race interview. Those memories are tattooed on my heart now.
Maybe I am an idiot, but what a glorious idiot to be. Sure, it started as an act, a carefully crafted illusion to sell a narrative and appease sponsors. But now? Now, it feels as real as the paint dripping from my brush.
The truth sings in the back of my mind, a happy little tune that makes me want to dance. It’s not all an act anymore. Something real is blooming between us, a spark of connection that’s setting off fireworks in my chest and making my heart do the cha-cha.
I dip the paintbrush into the can, a vibrant shade of pink aptly named Lucky 13 . It feels like destiny. I’d found it at the hardware store earlier today, the paint chip practically winking at me from the display of color swatches.
“This one,” I’d told the salesclerk, grinning like I’d won the lottery. “I’ll take this one. And a gallon of your finest primer. That minimalist white’s gotta go.”
Now, standing in the middle of Cole’s soon-to-be-not-so-sterile guest room, a roller in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, I feel a surge of giddy excitement. Cole’s at a meeting with his sponsors, leaving me alone to transform his house.
The first stroke of pink against the pristine white wall feels like writing a love letter. It’s a declaration of… something. Hope? Love? The future? Whatever it is, it’s making my insides feel as fizzy as a glass of champagne.
As the color spreads, transforming the room from a sterile white box into something warmer, more vibrant, more us, a bubble of laughter escapes me. What am I doing? This is crazy. I’m falling for him. Again. And you know what? It feels amazing.
Sure, there are memories of the past, of heartbreak and whispers. But they feel distant now, like watching storm clouds from inside a cozy, love-filled bubble.
This might have started as a job, a contract, a temporary escape from reality. But now? Now, it feels like the beginning of something wonderful, something long overdue.
And you know what? I’m ready for it. Bring it on, Cole Lawson. Let’s paint this town, and your house, pink with love.
As I’m putting the finishing touches on my pink masterpiece, my phone buzzes on the windowsill. Cole’s name flashes on the screen, and my heart does a little salsa dance in my chest.
Get it together, Lola. You’re a grown woman, not a lovesick teenager.
But who am I kidding? I dive for the phone like it’s the checkered flag at the Indy 500.
“Hey, Lawson,” I answer, aiming for casual and landing somewhere between breathless and giggly. Nailed it.
“Hey, Lola.” His voice, even through the phone, sends shivers down my spine. It’s like warm honey drizzled over my soul. Is that even a thing? Who cares? I’m high on paint fumes and love.
“How’s the redecorating going?” he asks, with a hint of amusement in his voice.
I glance around the room, a surge of pride warming my chest. The pink isn’t as obnoxious as I’d hoped—I mean, feared. It’s warm and vibrant, like a sunrise over the racetrack. “It’s… pink,” I reply, biting my lip to hold back a grin. “You might even like it.”
“I doubt it,” he chuckles, and the sound does very inappropriate things to my insides. “But I’m willing to be surprised. Listen, the meeting’s running late. I probably won’t be back until dinner. You okay holding down the fort?”
Am I okay? I’m painting your guest room the color of my heart, you adorable idiot. “I’m fine,” I say instead, because apparently, I still have some semblance of self-control. “Just finishing up this paint job, then I’m going to head over to the track. Figure out what kind of hell Tane’s planning to unleash on us next weekend.”
“Good thinking,” he says, and is it my imagination, or does he sound impressed? “Hey, Lola…”
“Yeah?” I breathe, my heart doing that flippy thing again.
“Thanks. For everything.”
The words, spoken with such sincerity, catch me off guard. They hang in the air between us, a fragile thread connecting our cautious hearts. Yes, we’re in love, but this is still fresh and fragile.
“It’s my pleasure, Cole,” I manage to get out, my voice barely a whisper.
“I’ll see you tonight.”
“Can’t wait,” I reply, and I mean it with every fiber of my being.
I hang up and stare at the phone in my hand, a goofy grin spreading across my face.
As I add the final strokes to my pink paradise, my mind wanders back to high school. Back to when Cole and I were just two kids with big dreams and even bigger crushes on each other. Goodness, we were so young, so na?ve.
I remember the party. The music. The way Cole had looked at me, his eyes dark with a desire that mirrored my own. I was so excited to take our friendship to the next level. The feel of his lips on mine, a stolen kiss that promised a future we’d never have.
And then, the rejection. The cold, calculated way he’d pulled away, his eyes shuttered, his voice distant.
“I can’t do this, Lola. It’s not the right time. Not the right place.”
For years, those words haunted me. They followed me like a shadow, whispering doubts in my ear every time I dared to hope for something more.
But now I know the truth. And it makes my blood boil hotter than Eleanor’s engine.
Chad. Freaking Chad. That smug, manipulative bastard. He’d blackmailed Cole into leaving me. Threatened to reveal some dark secret from Cole’s past if he didn’t cut ties with me. Unbeknownst to me, we’ve been dealing with this meddling asshole for six years.
The paintbrush trembles in my hand as a fresh wave of anger washes over me. Chad didn’t just mess with Cole. He messed with us. With what could have been. With what still might be.
“Lola the Narc.” The nickname sticks in my throat, a bitter reminder of the whispers and accusations that followed. All because Chad couldn’t stand the thought of Cole being happy. Of us being happy.
I slam the paint roller against the tray, splattering pink droplets across the pristine white carpet. Oops. Sorry, not sorry, Cole. Consider it my artistic signature.
Dammit, I hate Chad. Hate him with the fire of a thousand suns. Hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my life. If I saw him right now, I’d probably introduce his face to my fist. Or maybe his dick to my knee. Repeatedly.
But as I look around the room at the warm pink walls that seem to glow with possibility, I feel something else bubbling up beneath the anger. Hope. Because despite Chad’s best efforts, despite the years of hurt and misunderstanding, Cole and I found our way back to each other.
Sure, it started as a fake relationship. A business arrangement. But now it feels like we’re getting a second chance at the love story we were denied all those years ago.
And this time, I’m not letting anyone—especially not Chadwick freaking Tane IV—stand in our way.
I step back, admiring my handiwork. The room looks amazing, if I do say so myself. It’s warm and inviting. A perfect blend of Cole’s sleek style and my vibrant chaos.
Just like us.
As I clean up, humming along to the radio, I can’t help but smile. Chad may have won the battle in high school, but the war is far from over. And this time, I’m fighting for keeps.
Watch out, Chad. Lola the Narc is back. And she’s painting the town pink.
I’m just about to pat myself on the back for a job well done when my phone buzzes. Probably Cole again. I grin, reaching for it with paint-smudged fingers.
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, splattering Lucky 13 pink 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. Fake I 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…