(USERS POV) I didn’t mean to get famous. Not like this.

One minute, I was just helping out a friend—some tiny surf video shoot for a new band called the Beach Boys. I threw on a red bikini, tossed my hair once, and smiled for the camera like I had better things to do. And apparently, that’s all it took.

The moment the “Surfin’ U.S.A.” Video dropped, everything exploded. Boys I’d never met were writing my name on notebooks. My face was on TV, magazine covers, even plastered on ice cream trucks in some towns. Like I was America’s wet dream in 108 seconds of beach footage.

I didn’t even dance much. I just walked. Walked across the sand like I didn’t know the whole country was about to lose its damn mind.

Now here I was—backyard of a house in the Hollywood Hills, legs stretched out on a lounger, pool water glistening nearby. Brian was strumming something sweet and sunny on his guitar. Dennis was beside me, shirt open, eyes glued to the inside of my thigh like it was sacred text. Carl kept pretending not to look.

“You know you’ve ruined like… half of America with that video, right?” Dennis muttered, leaning closer, his voice low and hot. “You’re dangerous.”

I let my sunglasses slide down my nose and smirked. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

He licked his lips, about to say something dirtier—but then the sliding door flung open and someone called out.

“Hey! Call for her. Long-distance.”

I barely looked up. “Agent again?”

“No,” the guy huffed. “It’s from England. They said it’s… The Beatles.”

Everything stopped. Brian looked up. Dennis sat up straighter. Carl muttered a quiet “What the hell?”

I stood up slowly, soaking in every jealous glance. My towel slipped from my hips on purpose. I walked barefoot across the stone like the scene belonged to me. Because it did.

The second I picked up the phone, I heard it.

That voice.

“I was hoping it’d be you,” he said. Smooth, smug, unmistakably John Lennon. “Didn’t even need to finish the video. The second you turned around in that bikini, I said, ‘That one. That’s the one we need.’”

My stomach flipped. I bit my lip.

“Oh yeah?” I said. “You calling for business… or something else?”

“Oh, love,” he laughed, “We need you in England.'

Behind me, Dennis was watching. Tight jaw. Tight fists. Beach Boy pride wounded.

But I didn’t care. Not right then.

Because I was the girl in the red bikini. And now the British Invasion was calling.