Chapter 77
Lola
Lola felt the heavy weight of Enzo’s arm draped across her waist, the heat of him anchoring her even before she opened her eyes. She caught the subtle shift in his breathing–awake, but not moving yet.
“Marco’s already on his way,” he said, voice still gravel–deep from sleep. “I’ll head down in a few days. Stay long enough to make sure everything’s locked in the way I want it.”
There it was–the shield raising, forged from the need to keep Enzo safe and a dangerous warmth I can’t bring myself to name.
Her stomach did a weird little twist at that–equal parts pride and the quiet reminder that she’d just willingly joined a chess match where the pieces bled when they fell.
Lola let her fingers trace lazy, invisible shapes on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under her palm.
“And I’m supposed to behave while you’re gone?”
His mouth curved against her hair. “You’re supposed to be here when I get back.”
She
That hit somewhere deep. She didn’t say I will. She didn’t have to. The truth was already lodged under her ribs–she wasn’t going anywhere. Not unless he wanted her to.
One week later
A good week.
A normal week–if either of them even knew what that meant.
Enzo was everywhere–meetings, calls, handling business she didn’t ask about–but somehow still here. Like he’d decided distance was a thing he could just… refuse.
Until this morning.
His suitcase sat by the door, all sleek leather
and silent implications. He didn’t rush; he just kept looking at her like he was trying to memorize her face, the way her hair spilled over her shoulder, the way she was curled up in the chair with her coffee.
It should’ve felt overdramatic. It didn’t.
Because she could feel it–that quiet shift. The one you only notice when it’s too late to stop it.
This week was over.
The next one?
It was about to be a hell of a lot more complicated.
By mid–morning, he was gone. Just like he said–business to handle, people to see, ports to keep breathing. Marco was already across the ocean, fortifying their hold, and Enzo would be gone for at least a week.
That left her with time.
Too much time.
She filled it with work–prepping flash sheets, organizing her kit for the upcoming two–day expo in L.A.–and the occasional text exchange with Enzo that left her half–smiling, half–feral, wanting him back faster than was reasonable.
She hadn’t meant to wander
it on the other side of the ocean.
Instead, she found a door she didn’t even know was there.
The first few shots were harmless enough–wide desert skies, dust storms curling across the horizon, a selfie from before the tequila and blackout, cinnamon lipstick perfect, glitter dusting her collarbones. She remembered taking that one.
But then came the chaos.
A blurry close–up of her holding a turkey leg like it was a priceless artifact.
A shot of Enzo mid–laugh, head tipped back, light catching the sharp line of his jaw.
A selfie of the two of them in ridiculous sunglasses, her tongue out, his hand gripping her hip like they’d already claimed each other.
A shaky video where she was clearly narrating some kind of “documentary” about “the effects of space–time on human attraction,” slurring about how gravity was pulling her that way–and just before the clip cut, the camera panned enough to catch Enzo in frame, smirking like he knew exactly what she
meant.
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