Faking it || Lando Norris LN

39

Olivia Reyes

Monday morning.

I woke up feeling like I hadn't even slept; as if the night hours had slipped away in the blink of an eye. It was frustrating, given that I spent an awful amount of time tossing and turning before finally being able to "sleep."

I kept asking myself why my body had felt such an electrifying pull toward him, but the question was quickly replaced with why he had been so desperate to crash his lips against mine.

I managed to get to good enough answer. It was routine for him. God, he was Lando Norris. My group-chat with Charles, Max, and Daniel last season had always been flooded with them gossiping about who Lando had been seen kissing that weekend. (Seriously, they were worse than teenage girls in movies when it came to gossip.)

Playboy-ing his way through life had been his routine —until the PR stunt came into existence, of course. Suddenly, he was unable to kiss any other girl who wasn't me and I... well I hadn't been exactly down for it for a long while.

So that had been my answer. Lando was used to kissing loads of women. Then couldn't. Could now kiss me. Therefore, had been desperate to kiss me. I had nothing to do with it other than being the only girl he was allowed to kiss.

Except, there was a fault in my chosen answer.

His restraint.

I could still remember his contradicting expression, his heavy breathing, and the way he was at odds with the dilemma displayed all over his face. The urge to take a step forward and the certainty that he should take a step back instead.

The evident restraint all over his body was a mixture of so many things I couldn't even begin to decipher. For a moment, I told myself that he was only waiting for my permission, as he always did. But there was a fault in that answer as well.

I'd given him my permission as soon as I ran my hand softly from his wrist all the way to his shoulder. I'd given him my permission as soon as I feathered my fingertips slowly over the dampened fabric covering his torso.

If kissing me was something he was eager to do only out of the need to satisfy his routine, his restraint made no sense. Why not just kiss me? And why on Earth did I want him to do it so badly? What was wrong with me?

What was wrong with us? — The final question echoed inside the walls of my hotel room, littered all over my mind like afterparty confetti.

It was also the first thing that crossed my mind as soon as I woke up, feeling like the already insufficient 4 hours of sleep had been a mere second.

The good thing was... I had the perfect antidote to keep myself from thinking about it.

This weekend was the Mexico City Grand Prix.

I eagerly swatted away all of the impatient thoughts about last night, failing the first few (hundred) times until my suitcase was zipped and my feet making their way through the stairs of the plane. I couldn't even hide my excitement as I got into the plane, making Gianna fall to the floor with laughter as she saw me doing a happy dance all the way to my seat.

There was just so much to be excited about. Mostly I was just dying to see my family, but it was also my home race, my language, my everything. A lot of Grand Prix spent loads of money to make the environment fun until they seemed more like parties where a race was going on other than a racing weekend. I loved that kind of Grand Prix, but the Mexican Grand Prix was a completely different level inside my heart. The organizers always went all out to make it fun, but it was the people attending who truly stole the show.