Accidentally Yours Chapter 57

****Lola****

The elevator opened to the twenty-second floor, and Lola stepped into the kind of suite that made you feel like you should have a champagne flute in hand at all times. Wide open living space, floor-to-ceiling windows flashing the LA skyline, bedrooms with beds that could sleep a small village.

She tossed her bag onto the couch like she was claiming land. “So, we’re all staying together?”

“Yup,” Gino confirmed, already tossing his duffel in one of the bedrooms. “One suite. Two rooms. Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Lola said, grinning like Christmas came early. “It’s perfect. You guys can help me pick outfits for tomorrow.”

Dom gave her a wary look. “This is about to be a trap, isn’t it?”

“Nope,” she said sweetly. “This is about to be a competition. The goal is comfort and making sure every other artist in that expo questions their life choices when they see me.”

They all took turns showering, steam fogging the mirrors while city lights bled in through the glass. Dinner was a block away—a cozy little bistro where pasta and wine worked their slow magic, loosening everyone up until laughter came easy.

By the time they made it back to the suite, Lola was warm from the wine and feeling bold. She dumped her bag onto the coffee table and clapped her hands. “Alright. Fashion show time.”

Gino groaned. “We’re really doing this?”

“Yes,” she said, already pulling out the first option—black high-waisted joggers, cropped long-sleeve with mesh cutouts, and clean white sneakers. Hair up, hoop earrings. She stepped out, spun once. “Comfy enough to work in, hot enough to make people stare?”

“Eight,” Gino said.

“Seven,” Dom countered. “Lose the hoops—you’ll catch them on something.”

Next: distressed denim shorts over black fishnet tights, oversized faded band tee knotted at the waist, chunky boots. Hair down, messy waves.

“Nine,” Dom said without hesitation.

“Eight,” Gino agreed. “But only if you add the leather jacket.”

She grinned and disappeared again. The third look was tailored cargo pants with a slim-fit tank, harness-style belt, and combat boots.

Gino tilted his head. “That’s… hot.”

Dom smirked. “You’re gonna make Enzo have a heart attack if you wear that one.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. Noted.

The fourth outfit was a fitted black jumpsuit with a racerback cut, sneakers, and stacked bracelets.

“Ten,” Gino said before she even spoke.

Dom nodded. “Winner. You’ll be able to work in it all day, but…” His eyes narrowed. “What’s your plan for day two?”

“Oh, I’ve got that covered,” she said with a sly smile, already folding the jumpsuit neatly for tomorrow.

She collapsed onto the couch between them, satisfied. “Thanks for the feedback, gentlemen. Now we’re officially going to be the hottest booth at the expo.”

Gino shook his head. “You mean you.”

“Same difference,” she said, smirking.

*****Expo Day 1*****

The convention center buzzed like a beehive—machines humming, voices overlapping, the faint smell of antiseptic cutting through coffee and hairspray. Lola tightened the last bolt on her armrest, smoothed the fresh black table cover, and lined up her ink bottles in perfect, rainbow-ordered rows.

She stepped back, hands on her hips, and took in her little slice of the expo floor. Everything was exactly how she wanted it—clean, organized, and ready to make her booth the place people stopped for more than just the art.

Her phone was already in her hand. She angled herself just inside the frame, the backdrop of her setup behind her, one hip cocked, mouth curved in that you wish you were here smirk. Quick snap. Send.

Lola: “Day one. Try not to miss me too much.”

***You should’ve added and you can’t touch me, poor baby.***

***…But you actually want him to touch you. Which is the problem.***

Across the aisle, Gino was unpacking snacks from a backpack like they were rations for war. Dom was leaning on the booth wall, eyes scanning the crowd like he was on security detail—which, technically, he was.

“You’re set?” Gino asked, holding up a granola bar like it was an olive branch.

“Set,” Lola confirmed, taking the bar and tearing into it. “Now I just have to be charming and talented for the next eight hours.”

Dom smirked. “That’s your natural state, isn’t it?”

She grinned at him, but her phone buzzed before she could reply.

Enzo: “Kitten. You’re going to make me abandon half a rebuild just to drag you into a supply closet.”

Lola: “Promises, promises.”

Heat slid low in her stomach. She locked the phone before her face gave anything away.

***Nope. Not today. You have to work. You have to keep your hands steady and your head clear.***

***…God, but he’d look so good in that supply closet.***

By noon, the convention floor was in full swing—machines buzzing in stereo, someone’s Bluetooth speaker blasting early 2000s rock, the air thick with ink, sanitizer, and overworked air conditioning.

Dom and Gino had stationed themselves like bouncers—one leaning on the corner of her booth, the other scanning every single person who so much as glanced in her direction.

It was sweet. And also suffocating.

She set her machine down between clients, glancing at the clock. “You two should go grab lunch. You’re making it weird hovering like this.”

Dom’s brow arched. “Weird? We’re making sure no one messes with you.”

“You’re also making it look like I’m about to get my kneecaps broken if I don’t tip right.” She shot them both a look that said she appreciated them but also please go. “I’m fine. Promise.”

Gino didn’t move. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. Go. Eat. Flirt with the girl at the taco truck. Live your best lives.”

Reluctantly, they exchanged a glance and headed toward the exit, Dom muttering something about “ten-minute check-ins” over his shoulder.

***Good. Now maybe I can breathe without feeling like I’m under FBI surveillance.***

She used the quiet to wipe down her station, swap gloves, and line up fresh needles. Right on cue, her next appointment slid into the chair—a tall man in a tailored shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms inked in the kind of meticulous, expensive work only certain artists dared to touch.

His smile was easy, warm. “Lola, right?”

“That’s me,” she said, gesturing to the chair. “You Rafael?”

“That’s me.” He sank into the seat like he owned it, like he owned everything. “Appreciate you picking my design, I’m sure you had a lot of people trying to get to you while you’re here.”

***Confident. Well-dressed. A little too smooth. Definitely not from around here.***

She didn’t recognize the name, but expo clients came from everywhere. “Nice to finally put a face to the name and it’s no problem. Let’s see the reference and get you numbed up.”

He handed her his phone, the image already pulled up. “I figured you were the one to do it right.”

Her mouth curved. “Flattery will get you… a couple of good dad jokes and maybe a gentler hand.”

He chuckled, leaning back while she prepped. Calm. Polished. Not a hint of nerves.

The needle buzzed steady, the angel’s wings taking shape on the tender skin of Rafael’s inner bicep. Lola had warned him it was a brutal spot—most clients tapped out for at least one break—but he’d sat like stone for the past forty minutes.

“You’ve got a high pain tolerance,” she said, dipping the needle for the next pass.

“Comes with the territory,” he replied, voice low and even.

She arched a brow. “And what territory is that?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze swept over her booth instead—her setup, her tools, the neat little row of ink bottles. Then he looked back at her. “One where you don’t complain when it hurts.”

Smooth. The kind of smooth that’s practiced, but not in a boring way.

She smirked, keeping her focus on the fine lines of the halo. “Guess that makes you a good client, then.”

“Guess that makes you a dangerous artist,” he countered.

“How’s that?”

His lips curved, slow and deliberate. “Because if this hurts and I still enjoy it, what else could you make me enjoy?”

***Bold. Definitely one of those types who liked testing boundaries.***

She ignored the flicker of heat that crept up her neck and concentrated on the shading. “Well, my goal is to make it worth remembering.”

Rafael’s gaze lingered a fraction too long. “You’d be surprised what I appreciate.”

The last lines went in clean. She wiped him down, wrapped the arm, and gave him her aftercare spiel. He slid his jacket back on, the crisp fabric pulling over fresh ink, and stood like he’d been born in that suit.

“Pleasure, Rafael,” she said, peeling off her gloves. “You were a good canvas. My home base is in Vegas if you’re ever in the area and want to add on.”

His mouth tipped into that slow, deliberate smile again. “I’m in Vegas all the time, Lola. And something tells me this won’t be my last session with you.”

He took her card, tucked it neatly away, and left the booth without looking back—though she had the distinct feeling he didn’t need to.