Chapter Text
The last few days of my vacation had been a quiet race against time, each hour a chance to absorb the sun's warmth before Monday dragged me back to London. Two weeks in Èze with my family, a ritual every summer, was coming to an end. Today, however, I had decided to skip the family hike. Instead, I chose the familiar comfort of the beach, determined to even out my tan under the Mediterranean sun.
But even sun-drenched leisure had its limits. Growing bored of my novel, I tossed it aside and shifted from stomach to back, the book forgotten.
My chest was bare. While most women kept their bikini tops on, there were always a few sunbathers more daring than the rest, and their casual boldness helped me blend in. I shrugged inwardly and settled in, eyes closed, trying to let the sound of the waves lull me into peace. I had great tits, after all, and there was no one here whose opinion mattered enough for me to feel self-conscious
The sun warmed my skin, but suddenly, a shadow passed over my face. The suddenness of it dragged me back into awareness, and then came a voice—British, vaguely familiar, with a soft laugh: “I thought it was you.” My eyes snapped open, and I bolted upright, a hand instinctively covering my chest. Standing over me, flashing an amused grin, was Lando Norris.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
We moved in similar circles, sure, but we weren’t close—far from it. We’d spoken maybe a handful of times, certainly not enough for him to spot me here, on a quiet beach in Èze, of all places.
“Jesus Christ, you scared me!” I blurted, my heartbeat quickening. He laughed, the easy kind that suggested he was entirely unbothered by the situation.
“We’re just driving to Nice,” he said with a shrug. “Stopped to grab something to eat.”
I glanced over his shoulder, relieved to see his friends were further down the beach, too far to witness this awkward encounter. My arm still covering my chest, and I scanned the sand for my bikini top. For a moment, I considered asking him to turn around so I could slip it back on, but something about that felt even more embarrassing. With a feigned air of indifference, I dropped my arm once again exposing my breasts and casually pulled my top over my head, tying it behind me.
When I looked up, I caught him watching me, his lips parting as if he was about to say something—before he quickly turned away, suddenly bashful. "I'm here with my family," I explained, straightening my top.
"We have an apartment nearby. But I fly back to London on Monday." He glanced back at me, as if he’d only just remembered he was meant to be having a conversation. He shifted awkwardly, then offered a crooked smile.
“Did you have a good summer break?” I asked, but he spoke at the same time: “Would you like to join us?”
“Sorry?” we both said in unison, laughing at the timing.
God, he’s cute when he smiles, I thought, unable to help myself. I’d seen him on TV recently, his sadness palpable in his eyes, and it tugged at something in me I couldn’t quite explain. I barely knew him, but somehow, I wanted him to be happy.
"Do you want to grab lunch with us?" he asked again, his voice light and hopeful.
I hesitated. “Umm... where are you going? I’m not exactly dressed for it.”
“We won’t have a table until half-one,” he replied with a grin. “That’s why we’re wandering the beach. You can change and meet us if you’d like.” His hands shot up in mock surrender as he added, “No pressure, though.”
I couldn’t help but smile back. Slowly, I nodded. "Sure. Sounds like fun."
"Here, give me your number and I’ll text you the address," he said, handing me his phone. I tapped my contact information into it and handed it back. Our fingers brushed, a brief touch that sent an unexpected thrill through me, a spark of something more electric than the sun’s heat.
"Great," he said, pocketing the phone. "See you at half-one, then."
As I made my way back to the apartment, the encounter with Lando Norris replayed itself, sharp and surreal. I still couldn’t believe it.
We had met before—flirted a few times at parties—but I’d always written him off as the type who flirted with everyone. The quintessential playboy. Yet there was something about him, something beneath the surface that had always seemed different. Lately, especially. There was a lost look in his eyes I’d seen on TV, a sadness I couldn’t quite place but had joked with Emilie that I could fix. She laughed, agreeing, though we both knew it was an absurd notion.
It was through Emilie, after all, that I’d first met him. A Monaco socialite born to that world of glamour and fast cars, she always claimed she preferred my company because I was "normal." I never knew if that was meant to be a compliment or a thinly veiled insult. Sometimes, I wondered if she kept me around because I didn’t mind playing second fiddle. But for the first time in a long while, it felt like I might be stepping out of that shadow and into a different role altogether.
As soon as I stepped into the apartment, my phone chimed, pulling me from my thoughts. An unknown number flashed across the screen. Expecting a text with a restaurant name or an address, I was surprised when instead it read: Where’s your apartment? I’ll come pick you up.
I exhaled a small sigh of relief. This would give me a little more time to get ready. I quickly typed out my address, adding a note to text me when he arrived. Smiling to myself, I saved the number as "LN," feeling oddly superstitious about entering his full name—almost as though doing so would jinx the entire thing. I glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes, maybe, to pull myself together. Panic flickered at the edges of my calm.
There wasn’t time to deliberate over outfits, so I reached for my go-to, a fitted white dress that skimmed just below my knees. It was simple but flattering, perfect for a casual lunch. I slipped into a pair of flat sandals, grabbed a small purse, and rushed to the bathroom.
I stood before the mirror, assessing. My skin was lightly freckled, sun-kissed from the beach, and my hair, tousled from the breeze, looked a bit wild. I ran a brush through it, smoothing the strands just enough before tossing a hair tie into my bag in case I wanted to tie it up later. Keeping the makeup light, I dabbed on some mascara, a touch of blush, and a tinted lip balm. For a fleeting moment, I considered eyeliner, but before I could decide, my phone buzzed again.
He was outside.
Abandoning the eyeliner, I spritzed on a bit of perfume, grabbed my bag, and hurried downstairs.
The moment I stepped out of the building, a sleek car pulled up—low, two-seater, something expensive that I should probably be impressed by but just went over my head. Lando popped out, jogging around to open the passenger door for me.
"Oh, you don’t have to!" I blurted, realizing too late that he actually did. I had no idea how to open the door on this car. He flashed me a playful grin, leaning in just slightly.
“I see you decided to wear a top this time. Shame,” he teased, pulling the door open smoothly.
My cheeks flamed at his remark, and I slid into the seat, my heart skipping more than just a beat as the door clicked shut behind me.