Accidentally Yours Chapter 65

**Lola**

They walked out together—Enzo still shaking his head, Lola still smug as hell—her boots squeaking like a rubber ducky in a murder scene. Hand in hand.

In the kitchen, she hopped up onto a stool like she was claiming a throne. He moved behind the counter, grabbing the blender, protein powder, oat milk, and bananas from the fridge. Lola watched him work with an approving hum, like this was her own private cooking show.

“Vanilla bean?” he asked.

“Obviously,” she said. “Anything else would be a crime.”

He added a scoop of cinnamon roll for extra indulgence—because she was his girl, and she deserved to be spoiled—and blended it smooth. When he slid the glass toward her, she took a long sip and moaned like it was liquid gold.

“God bless,” she said. “You could get laid off this alone.”

Dom walked in, took one look at her outfit, and stopped like his brain blue-screened. “Mayhem,” he muttered, dragging a palm down his face. “You look like a cartoon character who wandered into a crime scene.”

She beamed. “Why, thank you.”

Enzo snorted. “You’re chaos in human form.”

She gave him a proud little shoulder shimmy and another dramatic slurp of her shake.

“Is that why this is the most stable relationship you’ve ever been in?”

She smirked. “Because I threaten men with pop culture, legos, and light dismemberment?”

He just stared at her, eyes full of something that made her stomach flutter, then reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Because somehow, despite all that…”

He shook his head, trying to play it cool.

“…you sparked life I didn’t realize I was missing.”

Her smile faltered. Just a blink.

***By the gods this man. Such a cheese ball but damn it does something to my heart and my ovaries.***

“That’s the lamest shit you’ve ever said,” she whispered.

“I know,” he murmured.

And bumped her shoulder with his.

“But it’s true.”

The elevator dinged.

***Ohthankgod.***

Lola turned, already smiling as Dom and Gino spilled into the kitchen. Both froze in the doorway like they’d just walked into a trap.

Dom narrowed his eyes. “Oh hell no. You’re smiling. She’s smiling. That means something terrible’s coming.”

Gino pointed an accusatory finger at her. “If you ever make us sit through another ticking hell-ride like that again, I’m throwing you out the window.”

She batted her lashes, sipping her shake. “Fair. But come on. It was art.”

Dom groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “You owe us hazard pay, by the way.”

“For what?” she blinked, all fake innocence.

Gino jabbed his thumb toward the hallway. “For psychological torture via ticking metronome. What the hell was that?”

“Oh!” Lola lit up, practically vibrating with excitement. “Okay, so—there’s this anime, Tokyo Ghoul, right? There’s this scene where Jason kidnaps Kaneki, straps him to a chair, and tortures him over and over while making him count backwards from a thousand by sevens.”

They just… stared at her.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” she continued brightly. “And this was the perfect opportunity. Like, you can’t not use that moment when it presents itself.”

Dom squinted. “You tortured a guy because of anime?”

“I enhanced an interrogation because of anime,” she corrected, sipping her shake. “Big difference.”

Gino dropped his head to the counter. “I’m never trusting a girl with space buns again.”

“You never should have,” Lola said sweetly. “We’re unhinged. It’s in the knot placement.”

Dom grunted. “I think I developed a nervous eye twitch from that metronome.”

“You think?” Gino muttered. “I dreamed in ticks.”

Lola winced. “Okay, so yeah. Sorry about that. Collateral damage. But in my defense, it was highly effective. And also hilarious.”

Enzo leaned back against the counter, watching her with the kind of indulgent awe usually reserved for natural disasters and Nobel Prize winners. “Remind me to fireproof the penthouse.”

“Don’t bother,” Lola said, popping the cap on the protein shake again with a flourish. “If I burn it down, it’ll be for a good reason. Like mood lighting.”

Lola perched on the counter like it was a throne, swinging her rain-booted feet while sipping her protein shake like it was a cocktail. The chaos of earlier still buzzed under her skin, but it was quieter now—tucked under laughter and boots and goggles.

She grinned as Nico strolled in, hands in his pockets, looking like someone had briefed him on exactly what he’d missed.

“Well if it isn’t the prodigal son,” she said, raising her cup in salute. “You missed the road trip from hell.”

“I heard,” he said dryly. “My ears are still ringing from the post-mortem Gino gave me.”

“Oh come on,” she drawled, flipping her goggles up. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t have loved a four-hour live-action Tokyo Ghoul reenactment with bonus pine tree aromatherapy?”

Nico blinked once. “No.”

“Coward,” she teased.

The boys were still grumbling about ticks and psychological warfare, but she could feel Enzo’s gaze land on her again—low and hot and thoughtful, like he was watching more than her words.

And maybe he was.

Because under the surface, Lola was buzzing. That high-speed hum of adrenaline with nowhere to go. Her thoughts kept stuttering back to the club, to the man in the trunk, to the way her muscles had reacted without waiting for her mind.

***It wasn’t fear anymore. It was aftermath.***

***It was anger. And memory. And the slow ache of almost.***

***Keep it light. Keep it fast. They don’t get to see you unravel.***

She twisted to Gino, exaggerated affront painted across her face. “You know, for men who constantly threaten people with creative violence, you’re all very delicate when it’s a girl doing it.”

“You didn’t threaten him,” Dom muttered. “You mentally broke him in a moving vehicle. There’s a difference.”

Lola sipped her shake innocently. “Tomato, tomahto.”

“You need to come with a warning label,” Gino said, popping a gummy in his mouth. “‘Unattended gremlin may cause psychic damage.’”

She winked. “You’re just mad I was better at it than you.”

Nico chuckled low, then nodded at the shake in her hand. “That the same stuff Enzo makes?”

“Oh no,” she said, holding it up like a trophy. “Mine tastes like vanilla bean perfection. He gets green swamp water.”

“Because I care about your health,” Enzo muttered from the counter, half a smirk on his mouth. “And I’d like to keep your iron levels up before you go full Hannibal downstairs.”

She smiled at him—sweet and sharp, like a knife with a bow on it. “Aw. You say the most romantic things.”