Chapter Twenty-Four – Lola
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LOLA
The scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes, a sensory assault on my carefully constructed emotional fortress, wafts in from the kitchen, taunting me with a reminder of Cole’s infuriating domesticity.
Domesticity? Seriously, Lola? The man probably had a personal chef tucked away somewhere in this minimalist palace, ready to whip up gourmet meals on demand.
I slam the laptop shut, the sharp sound a punctuation mark to the endless stream of data analysis and race simulations I’ve been immersed in for the past… how many hours? I glance at the clock on the wall, the red numerals mocking me with their indifference to my emotional turmoil.
Cole has been home for almost four hours, and in those four hours, I’ve managed to avoid him with the skill of a seasoned ninja. It helps that his house is the size of a small airport, with enough rooms and hallways to get lost in for days. But even within these sprawling confines, I can feel his presence, a constant, unsettling hum of energy that makes my skin tingle and my heart race.
Every time I hear his footsteps echoing down the hallway, every time I catch a whiff of his cologne or glimpse his shadow moving across the wall, I have to fight the urge to confront him, to demand an explanation for that damn photo.
The photo.
The image, a cruel reminder of my own na?vete, is burned in my mind, a constant loop of betrayal and hurt. Cole, with his arm slung casually around a stunning blonde, his smile easy and familiar, her laughter echoing in the caption: Another sponsor event, another conquest. Cole Lawson never disappoints.
The words, sharp as shards of glass, twist in my gut, a bitter reminder of everything I’ve tried to forget.
You knew better.
But a part of me, the foolish, hopeful part, dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was different. That maybe this time, he was being… real.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I push away from the desk, my legs stiff from hours of sitting, my head throbbing with a dull ache that has nothing to do with spending hours looking at the screen after painting my room and everything to do with the emotional rollercoaster I am on.
The scent of garlic and herbs intensifies as I approach the kitchen, drawing me in like a moth to a flame. Cole, clad in a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt that does very little to hide the sculpted muscles of his chest, stands at the stove, his back to me. He’s stirring something in a pot, his movements fluid and confident, the picture of domestic bliss.
I clear my throat, announcing my presence. Cole turns, a smile spreading across his face, his eyes lighting up with a warmth that makes my stomach flip.
Don’t fall for it, Lola. It’s an act. He’s good at this, remember? Charm is his weapon of choice .
“Hey,” he greets, his voice warm and welcoming, a stark contrast to the icy chill that has settled over my heart. “I was starting to think you’d moved into the garage.”
“Just catching up on some work,” I say, my voice flat, devoid of the usual playful banter that has become our default setting.
“Right.” He casts me a sideways glance, his smile faltering slightly. “Work. Of course.”
He turns back to the stove, the silence stretching between us, thick and heavy with unspoken words, with the weight of the unanswered questions swirling in my head.
Ask him. Show him the picture. Demand an explanation.
But the words don’t come. Pride, or maybe just plain fear, holds me back. What if he denies it? What if he laughs it off, dismisses it as a harmless flirtation? What if… he confirms my worst fears, shattering the fragile hope I’ve been trying so hard to ignore?
I couldn’t handle that. Not tonight.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Cole says, his voice breaking the silence. “I made your favorite. Pasta puttanesca.”
My stomach growls, betraying my carefully constructed fa?ade of indifference. Pasta puttanesca. It is my comfort food, a recipe that’s been passed down from my grandmother, a reminder of family, tradition, and a time before my life became a tangled mess of heartbreak and broken promises.
He remembers.
The thought, small and insignificant, lands like a butterfly in my chest, its delicate wings brushing against the hardened shell I’ve built around my heart.
“Thanks,” I mumble, pulling out a chair at the breakfast bar, my gaze fixed on the sleek marble countertop—anything to avoid looking at him or the way the kitchen light glints off his dark hair, the way his shoulders move beneath his T-shirt, at the way his presence fills the room, making it feel less sterile, less lonely, less… empty.
“So…” His voice is laced with a forced cheerfulness that grates on my nerves, “How was your day? Manage to crack Tane’s latest strategy after your painting session?”
“It was… productive,” I say, my voice clipped. “Tane’s predictable. He’s overconfident. We’ll beat him again.”
“That’s my girl,” Cole says, his voice softening. He places a plate of pasta in front of me, the aroma of garlic and olives making my mouth water. “Always thinking two steps ahead. Just like old times.”
He sits down beside me, his thigh brushing against mine, the heat of his body radiating through his jeans. I pull away, putting a safe distance between us, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t pretend that everything’s okay.
He doesn’t push it. He just eats his pasta, his movements measured, his gaze fixed on some invisible point on the wall. The silence stretches between us, punctuated by the clink of forks against ceramic plates, the hum of the refrigerator, and the distant roar of the ocean.
Ask him about the picture. Confront him. Get it over with.
But I still can’t muster up the courage. Fear, thick and suffocating, chokes my throat. I don’t know if I could handle the truth.
“I’m going to bed,” I announce, pushing my plate away, half the pasta untouched. I stand up, my legs shaky and my head spinning with emotional exhaustion.
“Lola, wait…”
“Don’t,” I snap, my voice sharp, the words a shield against the vulnerability that threatens to engulf me. “Just… leave it, Cole.”
I turn and flee, his voice, a low rumble of confusion and something that sounds like… pain, echoing behind me.
Back in the sanctuary of my freshly painted room, surrounded by the cheerful pink walls that now felt like a cruel mockery of my own shattered hopes, I sink onto the bed, the weight of his betrayal crushing me.
And as I lie there, the scent of Cole’s cologne clinging to the sheets, a painful reminder of everything I’ve lost, everything I’ve foolishly allowed myself to hope for, I remind myself that I’ll never let him hurt me again.
“Fuck it. I’m not that na?ve teenager anymore. I can handle the truth. And I deserve some damn answers.”
A hot, pulsing wave of anger courses through me, erasing the last vestiges of my self-pity and replaces them with a fierce determination. I won’t let Cole Lawson play me for a fool. Not again.
I storm out of the bedroom, the cool polished concrete a shock against my bare feet. Cole’s oversized T-shirt is a flimsy shield against the storm raging inside me.
The kitchen’s empty, the remnants of our dinner a silent testament to the shattered peace that had hung between us earlier. The air is thick with the lingering scents of garlic, tomatoes, and fresh betrayal.
I find Cole in the living room, sprawled on the couch with a book in his hand, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks… peaceful. Domestic. Infuriatingly at ease.
The sight of him, so relaxed, so oblivious to the turmoil he’s unleashed, sends a fresh wave of anger crashing over me. This just won’t do.
“Who is this bitch?” I snarl, my voice shaking with barely contained rage. I shove my phone in his face, the picture of Cole and the blonde blazing from the screen like a beacon of betrayal. “And why is she draped all over you if I’m supposed to be your fake girlfriend?”
Cole’s head snaps up, his eyes widening with surprise. He practically yanks the phone from my hand, squinting at the image. For a moment, his expression is unreadable, then I see the moment a flicker of recognition dawns in his eyes.
“Where did you get this?” His voice is sharp, his gaze fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my stomach clench.
“Who cares where it came from?” I shoot back, my voice laced with a venom that surprises even me. “Just tell me who she is!”
“It’s… an old picture,” he says slowly, his brow furrowing. “From a sponsor event. Three years ago.”
“Three years ago?” The anger that had been fueling my righteous indignation sputters out, replaced by a wave of something akin to relief. “So, she’s not… your latest conquest?”
“Conquest?” Cole’s lips twitch, a hint of a smile breaking through his guarded expression. “Seriously, Lola? You think I’m some kind of prize-winning stallion, collecting trophies and women every time I leave the house?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I retort, but the heat in my cheeks betray my bravado. “It’s not exactly a secret that women flock to you.”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair, the gesture both familiar and infuriatingly attractive. “Look, Lola, there’s not a lot I can do about that. Yes, there was a time I loved the attention, but that was before the losing streak, before the bad press, before…”
He trails off, his gaze meeting mine, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.
“Before me,” I finish, the words a soft whisper.
The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken truths, with the weight of our shared past, with the fragile hope that had just begun to blossom, only to be crushed by a single, carefully timed photograph.
“So,” Cole finally breaks the silence, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “Who sent you this?”
“Does it matter?” I ask, the anger returning, fueled by a fresh wave of suspicion. “Someone’s clearly trying to sabotage us. To drive a wedge between us. And it’s working.”
Cole’s eyes narrow, a dangerous glint replacing the earlier vulnerability. “You’re right, it is working, but you’re wrong about it not mattering. It does matter. This isn’t a game anymore, Lola. I told you I loved you, and I meant it. We’re a team. And someone’s trying to take us down. We need to figure out who it is.”
All the fight drains out of me. He meant what he said. This isn’t fake anymore. Not a publicity stunt, not a calculated move to appease sponsors or manipulate the media. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s terrifyingly beautiful.
It’s hard to let go of the hurt of the past, to forget the sting of his betrayal, to trust in the solidarity of us . But I know him. Truly, I always have. Even when I hated him, even when I swore I'd never forgive him, a part of me—a stubborn, foolish part—held on to the memory of the boy who’d stolen my heart all those years ago. It’s time to keep the past where it belongs… in our rearview. Pun totally intended.
“I meant it, too.” I look up at him through my lashes, my gaze softening, the anger melting away, replaced by a tenderness I can’t quite conceal. “I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions. Everything is still a little raw.”
His hand reaches out, his fingers gently tracing the line of my jaw, his touch sending shivers down my spine. “I get it. I messed up. Royally. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”
His words, spoken with a sincerity that shines in his whiskey-colored eyes, wash over me like a balm, soothing the raw edges of my wounded heart.
We spend the next hour dissecting the situation, analyzing the possibilities, the potential suspects in this twisted game of sabotage. We comb through the news reports, social media chatter, and whispers from the paddock, the tension returning, but this time, it’s different. It’s a shared tension, a united front against a common enemy.
And we keep coming back to one person: Chad Fucking Tane. First, the interview dredging up the past, casting a shadow over Cole and his father's legacy, and now this? The leaked photo, the deliberate attempt to destroy Cole’s reputation, his career? He’s really playing dirty.
“He’s desperate,” Cole says, his voice tight with anger, his jaw clenched, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. “He knows he can’t beat me on the track, so he’s resorting to this… this cowardly bullshit.”
“I’m going to kick him straight in the nuts,” I say, my voice firm, my gaze locking onto his.
A slow smile spreads across Cole’s face, transforming his features, softening the hard lines and revealing a glimpse of the boy I fell for all those years ago.
“That’s my girl,” he says, his voice a low rumble, which sends a shiver down my spine. “Always up for a fight.”