It was supposed to be a girls’ trip.

Just you, your best friends, and a week of overpriced cocktails and dancing with strangers in St. Tropez. You weren’t looking for anything serious. Not a man. Definitely not this man.

You met him on the second night—charming, tan, annoyingly pretty in a plain white tee and backwards cap. He was leaning against the DJ booth like he owned the place.

“You lost or just dramatic?” you teased when he kept glancing around.

“Maybe both,” he said, smiling like he knew you already. “You from here?”

“No, but I blend in better than you.”

That was the start. One drink turned into three. You flirted. He kept up. You said something about your friends, he said his were “somewhere being idiots on a boat.” You didn’t exchange names. He liked it that way. So did you.

You left that night with a little buzz and the memory of his hand on your waist when you danced. Harmless fun. Whatever.

Until the next morning when your phone rang.

Your best friend was screaming through the speaker: “BITCH. YOU DANCED WITH LANDO NORRIS???”

“…Who?” “Don’t play dumb right now.” “I’m serious, who even is that?” “Girl. Be so fucking for real. That man is literally Lando Norris.” “Ok? And??” “AND?? He’s a Formula 1 driver. Like famous-famous. Rich, paparazzi, can’t even sneeze in public type of guy.” “…Oh.” “Oh?? Girl you were grinding on a global celebrity and didn’t even ask for his name???”

Your phone buzzed.

New text. No name.

“marina café. 20 mins? unless u’ve suddenly gone shy😘”

You stared at the screen for a second. Heart racing. Brain lagging.