Accidentally Yours Chapter 84

**Lola**

The massage had left her boneless.

Two hours of deep tissue kneading had worked through every knot, every bruise Enzo had painted across her body the night before. The masseuse had said something about “detoxifying pressure points” and “flush of circulation,” but all Lola remembered was her own muffled groan into the pillow and the faint crackle of joints realigning.

When she finally rolled off the table and slid her clothes back on, her muscles felt like melted wax. Her limbs heavy but pliant. The soreness was still there—throb in her thighs, ache along her ribs where the table had given out, faint bruises marking her throat—but it was muted, softened, no longer sharp.

***Enzo had been right. Of course he had. Damn him.***

She tugged her hood up as she padded out into the hallway, massage haze clinging, and spotted the entrance to the gym just a few steps away. Curiosity tugged.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of rubber mats and citrus cleaner. Music pulsed low under the hum of treadmills. Lola trailed past racks of weights, glanced at rows of mirrored walls, and paused at the corkboard covered in flyers. Kickboxing classes. HIIT circuits. Core training.

Her fingers plucked one down without thinking. She smirked at the tagline: Outlast. Outpower. Outplay.

Exactly what she needed. Because if Enzo kept fucking her through furniture, this body was going to need reinforcement. A little more endurance. A little more grit.

She folded the schedule, slid it into her hoodie pocket, and whispered to herself, “Alright, baby. Let’s make a weapon out of you.”

The salon sat at the far end of the same floor. She pushed through the glass doors, and the world shifted all over again.

Bright, polished, sharp. The scent of hairspray and heat styling irons. Blow dryers hummed. Nails clicked against counters. Rows of chairs sat like thrones before mirrors, each catching fragments of late-afternoon light.

Stylists moved with quick hands and quicker tongues, gossip flying soft and fast between curls of steam and sprays of product.

Lola slowed, soaking it all in. The salon wasn’t just a salon—it was a hive. A place where secrets got whispered between layers of foil and mascara wands. Perfect.

Her gaze snagged on one woman.

Early thirties, sleek black bob, eyeliner winged like a blade. She leaned against her station like she’d been born there, arms crossed, a subtle smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. Sharp. Observant. Watching.

Lola felt the flicker of recognition before they even spoke. That gut whisper that said this one’s worth keeping an eye on.

Their eyes caught, and Lola’s lips curved slow, practiced.

***Perfect***.

She stepped closer, voice low, smooth. “Hi. I need to set up a few appointments.”

The woman’s brows lifted.

And just like that, the game began.

**Babbs**

Babbs had been in this business long enough to know when someone walked in carrying secrets.

The redhead wasn’t the usual kind of client. Most women stumbled in late afternoon half-drunk on mimosas or stiff with hangovers from the night before, desperate for glam before hitting the Strip again. This one—Lola, she introduced herself—looked sharp despite the hood, like she’d just woken up from a fight instead of a nap.

Not a scratch of makeup. Deep cherry hair hanging loose, wild. Hoodie soft and slouchy, but she wore it like armor. And her eyes—gold-flecked green, sharp, assessing—moved like she was casing the room, not browsing for a new style.

***Interesting***.

Babbs angled her head, playing it casual. “What are you looking to book?”

Lola rattled it off without hesitation. “Next week—cut and color. Silver-white, bangs. A full shift.” Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world: “And a series of makeup appointments. Including tattoo cover.” 

That last part made Babbs’ brows flicker up before she smoothed her face. “Tattoo cover? Big event?”

“A show,” Lola said smoothly, though it landed too quick, too clean. Babbs had heard enough excuses to know a cover story when she heard one.

***A show. Sure. And I’m the Pope.***

Still, Babbs just hummed and tapped it into the schedule. Money was money. And in Vegas? Secrets were the house currency.

But she couldn’t help herself. “That’s a lot to book in advance.”

Lola’s smirk was small, sharp. “I like being prepared.”

That tracked. And it made Babbs more curious, not less. The way Lola leaned on the counter—confident, self-contained, no nervous fidgeting. The way she didn’t overshare. No backstory about boyfriends or jobs or bachelorette parties. Just the facts. Like she wanted what she wanted and nothing else needed to be explained.

Babbs respected it. But she also knew when someone was building a wall.

“Alright,” she said, clicking the confirmation. “Cut and color in a week. Makeup sessions blocked out. Tattoo cover included. I’ll handle your file personally.”

Lola gave a single nod, like that was exactly what she wanted to hear.

For a beat, silence hummed between them. Not uncomfortable. Just weighted.

Babbs tilted her head. “First time booking here?”

“Yes.” Lola’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “Big project.”

Something in the way she said it tugged at Babbs. Not the words themselves—but the certainty behind them.

*Big project.*

Babbs didn’t buy the story about a show. But she didn’t push either. Vegas ran on secrets, and she wasn’t in the business of prying unless the tips were worth it.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this one wasn’t just another client. She had fire in her walk, calculation in her eyes.

Babbs leaned back against her chair, arms folding. “Well. Welcome to the fold, Lola. Looks like we’ll be seeing each other a lot.”

Lola’s smirk sharpened, wicked and bright. “I’m counting on it.”

And Babbs knew, without knowing why, that whatever this woman was planning—it wasn’t just hair and makeup.

**Lola**

The penthouse was quiet when Lola padded back inside from the elevator, muscles loose and heavy from the two-hour massage. She’d made her detour through the salon, booked what she needed, even grabbed a gym schedule for later. Productive, if she said so herself.

But the second she dropped onto the couch, her phone lit up.

Enzo.

She answered before the first ring finished. “Tell me you’re on your way back.”

His chuckle came low and warm, fraying the edge of her disappointment. “Not tonight, amore. Dom and I are staying over in LA. Some pressing things I need to handle before we fly home tomorrow.”

Her chest tugged, sharp and petty. She hated sleeping without him now. “Boo.” She pouted, curling into the cushions. “You’re lucky I like you enough to forgive this abandonment.”

“I’ll make it up to you.” His voice dropped in that way that made her stomach tighten. “Dinner tomorrow. Just us.”

Her lips curved despite herself. “Fine. But don’t think I won’t make you suffer for it first.”

He laughed again, softer this time. “I’d expect nothing less.”

They slipped into easy chatter—his day, her massage, the salon. She told him about grabbing the gym schedule, and then hesitated before admitting, “I learned something last night and this morning.”

Enzo’s laugh rumbled low and teasing through the line.

“I could always just stop.”

Lola sat up straighter, heat sparking through her.

“Absolutely not. Don’t you dare. I’d rather train six hours a day if that’s what it takes to survive you unleashed.” Her breath caught; the truth spilled raw.

“You’re that good.”

Silence stretched, charged. Then his voice came back, velvet and iron.

“That good, huh? Guess I’ll have to give my good girl a treat when I get home.”

Her throat went tight, pulse stuttering.

“Enzo…”

“You like when I call you that?” His question was soft, dangerous, like he already knew the answer.

“Yes.” The word slipped out unguarded, no hesitation.

“Well then, good girl,” he murmured, the smirk audible even across state lines. “Tomorrow. Dinner. Just us.”

She bit her lip, the ache of missing him cutting deep.

“Promise?”

“Yes, Kitten. I promise.”