Chapter Twenty-Six – Cole
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
COLE
The private jet’s engines purr, a familiar rumble that usually sets me at ease. Not today. Today, that growl matches the restless energy thrumming through my veins. In less than forty-eight hours, I’ll be strapped into the Viper, pushing the limits at Albert Park. But right now, all I can focus on is the blonde bombshell sitting across from me, pretending I don’t exist.
Sunlight streams through the windows, turning her hair into a halo of gold. Her fingers fly over her tablet, probably tweaking some last-minute adjustments to the car. Always working, always in control.
Except for yesterday. The memory hits me like a tire wall at 200 mph. Her body pressed against mine, those emerald eyes dark with want…
“See something you like, Cole?”
Her cool voice snaps me back to reality. Shit. Caught staring like some rookie.
I clear my throat, my cheeks warming under her scrutiny. “Just wondering if those calculations are gonna give us the edge we need. The Ferraris were looking damn fast last week.”
Lola’s eyebrow arches, a skeptical expression on her face. “Worried?”
“Nah,” I lie, reaching for my water. No booze before a race, no matter how much I need it to dull the edge of the restless anxiety due to Chad’s drama queen antics. “But I like winning.”
“So do I,” she says, her voice soft but fierce. Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I’m not sure if we’re still talking about the race. The air crackles with unspoken tension, a reminder of the way our bodies moved together, the sound of her moans echoing in my head.
The plane hits a pocket of turbulence, and the illusion shatters. Lola’s knuckles go white on her armrests. Before I can think, I’m out of my seat, my hand covering hers.
“Easy,” I murmur, my voice rougher than intended. “I’ve got you.”
I feel the slight tremor in her fingers, see the rapid pulse at her throat. The memory of her vulnerability, the way she looked at me with those wide, trusting eyes, sends a jolt of desire through me.
“I’m okay,” she says, but her voice wavers.
I should move back to my seat. Put some distance between us, let her have this moment. Instead, I crouch beside her, my voice low and urgent. “We need to talk about yesterday.”
Her eyes flash to mine, a mix of fear and something hotter, something that makes my gut clench with a desire that has nothing to do with racing. “This isn’t the time or the place Cole. We have a race to focus on.”
The seatbelt sign dings, and the pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing our descent into Melbourne.
I sigh, retreating to my seat. Two steps forward, one step back. Story of my life with this woman.
But as she pulls up the track data on her tablet, I catch the slight flush on her cheeks, the quick glance she throws my way. It’s enough to rekindle the embers of hope, the thrill of the chase.
Game on, Lola. You might be calling the shots in the pit, but this thing between us? That’s a whole different kind of race. And I plan on winning the long game.
The Albert Park circuit shimmers beneath the midday sun, a ribbon of asphalt and promise winding its way around Melbourne’s picturesque lake. The air crackles with anticipation, the scent of exhaust fumes mingling with the cheers of the crowd, a heady cocktail that always gets my blood pumping.
Lola walks beside me, her sunglasses shielding her eyes, but they can’t hide the fiery determination in her gaze. We’ve fallen into a comfortable camaraderie in the days since Chad put a bullseye on my back, punctuated by moments of intense connection that leave me both exhilarated and terrified.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
The smooth voice, laced with false congeniality, sends a chill down my spine. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Chadwick “Dickwad” Tane. His shadow falls over us, a dark cloud on an otherwise perfect day.
“What do you want, Chad?” Lola’s voice is cool and professional, but I sense the underlying tension in the way her hand subtly grips my arm. Her touch is a silent affirmation of the unspoken alliance we’ve forged, a bond that goes far beyond the track.
“Just wanted to wish you both luck this weekend,” he drawls, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Though I doubt you’ll need it. Not with the way you two have been… distracting each other.”
His gaze lingers on us, a veiled threat in his tone, before he turns to leave, his words hanging in the air between us, heavy with unspoken menace.
“Just remember, Lawson,” he throws over his shoulder, his voice barely a murmur but laced with steel. “This is my race to win. And I don’t like sharing.”
He saunters away then, melting back into the throng of reporters and crew members, leaving a residue of unease in his wake.
I feel Lola stiffen beside me, her grip on my arm tightening. “Don’t let him get to you,” I say, my voice low. “He’s just trying to psych you out.”
“He’s not wrong, though,” she says, her voice barely audible above the roar of the engines tuning up on the track. “We have been… distracted.”
I clench my jaw, fury and something darker churning in my gut. Fucking Chad. Always pushing, always threatening. Always trying to get under my skin.
“Listen to me,” I growl, turning Lola to face me. Her eyes meet mine, a storm of emotions I can’t quite read swirling in their depths. “What happens between us? That’s our business. No one else’s.”
She bites her lip, conflict clear on her face. “Cole, we can’t?—”
“Can’t what?” I challenge, stepping closer, needing to erase the space between us, to feel the heat of her anger, the flicker of something else that hides beneath it. “Can’t be the best damn team out there? Can’t show that asshole what real racing looks like?”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips, a flicker of the fire I crave. “Is that what we’re doing?”
I grin, the pre-race adrenaline starting to hum in my veins, mixing with a different kind of hunger. “Damn straight. You and me.”
She shakes her head at me, but I see the spark in her eyes. The same fire that drew me to her from day one, the fire that makes her the best damn race engineer in the business… and the most frustratingly desirable woman I’ve ever met.
“Fine,” she says, all business again, her voice clipped and efficient. But I catch the slight tremor in her hands as she taps her tablet, a tell that betrays her carefully constructed composure. “Let’s go over the strategy one more time.”
As we head for the garage, Chad’s threat still echoes in my mind. He might think this race is his, but I’m not afraid of a fight. Especially not when I’ve got Lola by my side.
The garage is a hive of activity, my crew swarming over the car like worker bees, clanging wrenches and shouting instructions. I breathe in the familiar scent of oil and rubber, letting it center me and ground me in the present.
“All right, Cole,” Lola says, her voice crisp efficiency, all business. “We’ve made some adjustments to the rear wing. It should give you better downforce through turn eleven without sacrificing too much speed on the straights.”
I nod, only half-listening. My mind is already on the track, visualizing each turn, each apex, the rush of adrenaline as I push the Viper to its limits.
“You hear me, hotshot?” she snaps, bringing me back to the present, a hint of impatience in her voice.
“Yeah, yeah. Rear wing, turn eleven. Got it.”
Her eyes narrow behind her shades, and for a moment, I see a flash of the woman who rocked my world in the simulator, the woman who makes me forget everything but the heat of the moment. “This isn’t a game, Cole. One wrong move and?—”
“And I’m in the wall. I know.” I soften my tone, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder, needing to touch her, to reassure myself that she’s real, that what we shared wasn’t just a fever dream. “I’ve got this, Lola. Trust me.”
For a fleeting moment, her mask slips. I see the worry, the fear… and something else. Something that makes my heart race faster than any checkered flag.
“Just… be careful out there,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible above the din of the garage.
I grin, cocky as ever, the mask I wear as easily as my fire suit. “Careful is my middle name.”
She snorts, her professional mask firmly back in place. “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”
As I suit up, I can’t shake the feeling that this race is about more than just points. It’s a statement. To Chad, to the team, to Lola…
Hell, maybe even to myself.
The crew starts wheeling my car towards the pit lane. It’s showtime.
I turn to Lola one last time. “Hey.”
She looks up from her tablet, her eyes questioning. “What?”
I wink, a surge of adrenaline coursing through me. “Watch me fly.”
Her lips curve into a reluctant smile, a flicker of warmth in her gaze. “Just bring it home in one piece.”
As I walk away, helmet under my arm, I hear her mutter, “And yourself, too.”
The roar of engines fills my ears as I settle into the cockpit. The familiar confines of my car wrap around me like a second skin. This is where I belong. Where everything makes sense.
“Radio check, Cole,” Lola’s voice crackles in my ear, crisp and professional, a soothing balm to the chaos of the track.
“Loud and clear, boss lady,” I reply, a grin spreading across my face.
“Focus, hotshot,” she warns, but I catch the hint of amusement in her tone, a reminder of the woman beneath the headset. “Remember, we’re expecting rain in the second half. Be ready to switch to wets.”
I rev the engine, feeling the raw power thrumming through the chassis, the vibration echoing the anticipation building in my chest. “Copy that. Any sign of Chad?”
A pause and then her voice comes back, cool and steady. “He’s two spots behind you on the grid. Don’t let him get in your head.”
“Not a chance,” I growl, gripping the steering wheel tighter, a surge of competitive fire coursing through me. This fucking guy has caused enough chaos in our lives, I’m not about to give him anything else.
The formation lap begins, a slow procession around the track, the calm before the storm. I use the time to get a feel for the car, for the track conditions. Everything feels good. Damn good.
As we line up on the starting grid, I catch a glimpse of Chad’s car in my mirror. His helmet gleams in the sun, a predator waiting to pounce. But I’m not prey. Not today.
“Thirty seconds,” Lola’s voice is calm, steady, an anchor in the storm of adrenaline and anticipation that threatens to consume me.
I take a deep breath, visualizing the first turn, the rush of speed, the battle ahead. The lights begin to illuminate, counting down the seconds to ignition. One red. Two. Three. Four. Five.
The world narrows to a pinpoint of focus.
Lights out.
And then, we race.
I slam the throttle, catapulting off the line. The roar of engines surrounds me as twenty cars jockey for position into the first turn, a stunning masterpiece of speed and aggression.
“Great start, Cole!” Lola’s voice is electric with excitement, a surge of adrenaline in my ear. “P2 into turn one. Watch your left. Verstappen’s trying to sneak inside.”
I hug the inside line, feeling the car dance on the edge of the grip, the tires screaming in protest. This is living. This is flying. This is what I was born to do.
As we scream down the back straight, I catch sight of Chad’s car, doggedly pursuing, a blur of blue and chrome in my rearview mirror. But I have the line. I have the speed.
And I have Lola in my ear, guiding me home.
“You’ve got this, Cole,” she says, her voice steady and sure, a beacon in the chaos of the race. “Show them what you’ve got.”
I grin behind my visor, pushing the car harder, the engine roaring its approval. Chad, the team politics, even my feelings for Lola, all fade away as I lose myself in the rhythm of the race.
Right now, there’s only the track, the car, and the burning desire to win.
Lap after lap, I push the limits of man and machine, dancing on the edge of control. The Albert Park circuit becomes a blur of asphalt and adrenaline, each corner a battle, each straight a test of nerve.
“Halfway point, Cole,” Lola’s voice crackles in my ear. “P1, but Verstappen’s closing. Two seconds back.”
I grunt an acknowledgment, too focused to form words. Sweat stings my eyes as I brake hard into turn three, feeling the back end wiggle dangerously, the tires losing their grip on the warming asphalt.
“Easy on the throttle,” Lola cautions, her voice calm but firm. “Track temp’s dropping. Rain in five.”
As if on cue, I feel the first few drops hit my visor. Shit. This is about to get interesting.
Suddenly, the car lurches. A violent shudder runs through the chassis, the steering wheel fighting against my grip.
“Lola,” I growl, wrestling the car through turn five, my heart pounding against my ribs. “Something’s wrong.”
“Telemetry’s showing a drop in hydraulic pressure.” Her voice is tense, professional, but I hear the underlying worry, the fear that mirrors my own. “Left rear. Can you keep it on the track?”
The car fishtails as I hit a slick patch, my heart leaping into my throat. For a terrifying moment, I’m a passenger, the world spinning in a blur of gray sky and advertising hoardings.
“Cole!” Lola’s shout cuts through the roar of engines and the screech of tires.
I fight the wheel, muscles straining as I bring the car back under control. Barely.
“I’m good,” I pant, adrenaline surging through me, masking the tremor in my hands. “But not for long. This bitch is trying to kill me.”
“Box now,” Lola commands, her voice sharp, urgent. “We need to?—”
Her words cut off as the car lurches again. This time, I can’t save it. The left rear locks up, sending me spinning across the track. Gravel sprays as I hit the runoff area, the world a sickening kaleidoscope of motion.
I brace for impact, waiting for the crunch of carbon fiber against unforgiving barriers, but it never comes. The car slides to a stop mere inches from the wall, the engine sputtering into silence.
For a moment, all I can hear is my own ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart.
“Cole!” Lola’s voice is frantic in my ear. “Cole, talk to me! Are you okay?”
I take a shaky breath, my hands trembling on the wheel. “Yeah,” I manage, my voice hoarse with adrenaline. “Yeah, I’m okay. Car’s done, though.”
As the marshals approach, flags waving, I can’t help but laugh. A bitter, hollow sound.
So much for flying, huh?
But as I climb out of the wreckage, I catch sight of Lola in the pits, her face filled with relief so palpable it makes my chest feel tight. It’s a sensation that has nothing to do with the near-death experience I just endured.
As I trudge back to the pits, the roar of the remaining cars a constant reminder of what could have been, I brace myself for the fallout. The team will be pissed. Sponsors will be asking questions. And Chad? He’ll be gloating, no doubt.
But all of that fades when I see Lola waiting for me, her face a storm of emotions.
“What the hell happened?” she hisses, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the garage, her grip surprisingly strong. “You could have been killed!”
I blink, thrown off by her intensity and the raw fear in her voice.
“Hey,” I say softly, reaching for her, needing to touch her, to chase away the shadows I see in her eyes. “I’m okay. It’s just a DNF. We’ll come back stronger next race.”
She whirls on me, her emerald eyes flashing with an anger that’s more terrifying than any crash. “This isn’t about race standings, Cole. This is about?—”
She cuts herself off, turning away, her shoulders slumping. But not before I catch the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes.
Fuck.
Lola takes a shaky breath, composing herself. Her shoulders straighten, her chin lifting. When she turns back around to face me, her professional mask is firmly back in place. But I can see the cracks now, the vulnerability shimmering beneath the surface.
“The hydraulics failure wasn’t your fault,” she says, all business, her voice clipped and efficient. “We’ll need to do a full systems check; figure out what went wrong.”
I nod, following her into the garage, the weight of her unspoken concern a tangible presence beside me. The crew swarms around us, a flurry of concerned voices and frantic activity as they assess the damage to the Viper.
As Lola dives into the data, barking orders and demanding answers, I can’t shake the memory of her face when I climbed out of the wreckage. The fear, the relief… the raw emotion she wasn’t able to hide.
Maybe this crash revealed more than just a mechanical failure. I know I’ve told her how I feel, and she’s done the same, but it seems like something is still holding her back.
“Lola,” I say, catching her arm as she brushes past me, my fingers lingering on her skin, needing to ground myself in something real. “We need to talk.”
She stiffens, her gaze fixed on the data streaming across her tablet screen, avoiding mine. “Not now, Cole. We’ve got work to do.”
“Later, then,” I insist, my voice firm, determined. “Over dinner. My treat.”
For a moment, I think she’ll refuse, retreat behind her wall of professionalism. But then she nods, just once, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes, before disappearing back into the throng of engineers.