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httpsserene · 1 month

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𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 - 𝐜𝐬. 𝟓𝟓 & 𝐥𝐧. 𝟒 | 𝐒𝐎𝐒 |

𝐬𝐢𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 - 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐫

summary: you can't complain about being paid to soak up the heat of the spanish sun and serve drinks— if you can ignore the flirting middle-aged men. however, this summer could be your last. you need to decide if you're returning next year by the end of the day. if only there was a sign to help you make up your mind.

content warning: fluff. light flirting. world-building and backstory. ignore my questionable spanish. no beta we die like summer silly season 2k24.

pairing: poly! carlos sainz jr x lando norris x phd-student fem!black!reader

from, serene: just a little teaser, a lil prologue, to establish the vibes and vague characteristics of the reader ! i’m using my light understanding of spanish (as an unfortunate no sabo kid) to get through this, so pls ignore thx.

The sweat beading along your hairline causes your edges to curl and lift. The cooling effects of the portable fan dangling around your neck are negated by the suffocating humidity of a mid-August summer day, yet it enhances the scent of sweat, sunscreen, and the hints of your faded perfume. Your appreciation for the dry-fit fabric of your uniform is refreshed; if it wasn’t moisture-wicking, your resignation email would’ve been submitted with haste.

But, the uniform does its best to protect you from the Spanish heat, and the pay (and tips) are satisfying. You make enough money to live frugally and cover any expenses that your financial aid and scholarships don’t during the school year. This meant you didn’t have to juggle being a full-time student and a full-time worker to survive. Working the beverage cart is perfect—you can’t be mad about serving drinks to men who have more money than they know what to do with, and even though you despise the fact that they freely flirt (terribly, at that) with a wedding band shining bright on their left ring finger—it pays your bills. As much as that disgusts you, this was always meant to be a temporary job, a stepping stone. You weren’t planning to continue working here after you got your undergraduate degree. And now, after graduating, a fancy company has hired you and is offering to pay for you to get a PhD. So, of course, you accepted their offer of free education and a job. This means there’s no reason for you to continue working as a cart girl at Golf La Moraleja in Madrid.

But, it’s Spain! Summer in Spain, at that, it’s a massive difference from a monotonous school year back in America. And, you don’t even have to pay for an apartment in Madrid (which is out of your tight budget, anyway) because your parents live here, and they’re always desperate to have you at home rather than out living on your own. The shining summer sun keeps your melanin strong, too. You’ve made friends out of colleagues, good friends. You’ve made good memories, a good resume, stupid choices, near-death experiences—you’ve made a time out of your early twenty-somethings. You don’t want to let it go.

Yet, it seems like it’s time. You don’t need the money, even though having extra income would be terrific in this economy. It would probably exhaust you during a break that’s supposed to be relaxing from your PhD studies. You’ve regained all fluency in the Spanish language that you lost growing up in the States. You’ve been a cart girl for four years, maybe it’s time to start a new chapter and leave this behind. The cart bounces over a bump in the pavement and breaks your train of thought. Your body tenses at the sound of the cans and bottles clinking together louder than you’d like. You do not want to stay late on your last day cleaning out melted sticky alcohol from the cooler. It’s ironic—you would think that with your four summers of experience, you wouldn’t let your mind wander while driving. The clock beeps its warning of fifteen minutes till the end of your shift, and you sigh. Directing the cart back towards the first hole of Course One, you’re aware that if there’s anybody present who wants a cold drink, they will be your last customer of this season or even your last customer for forever.

You lift your foot off the gas pedal as you see three figures become visible on the green, readying yourself for what could be your final service. You halt the cart, turning off the engine and smoothing out the skirt of your uniform as you stand and walk out a few steps.

“¿Qué puedo servirles de beber?”

You catch the attention of one of the men, an older gentleman who greets you kindly and informs you that he needs something strong if he’s going to be dealing with the other two for eighteen holes. You laugh politely, glancing at the men who have yet to notice your presence. The taller brunette is annoying the shorter, poking and prodding at his stance, seemingly teasing him about his form. Your smile brightens at the sight before you redirect your focus to your current client, and you begin to talk him through his options for the stronger alcohol you’re carrying today.

He easily downs a shot of whiskey and takes a bottle of beer with a lime off your hands before he turns to gather the others’ attention.

“¡Mijos!” The men at this point, have dissolved into boyish squabbling that carries over to where the two of you are standing by the cart. They silence easily at the older man’s call, heads snapping in your direction with widened eyes. Oh fuck, that is what your brain thinks at the view.

The taller, tanner one, is handsome. He’s built—broad shoulders, plush lips, a strong nose, wide brown eyes, and long eyelashes that he has no reason to have. The shorter, paler one, is beautiful. Pretty, even. He’s not quite grown into himself yet, you can tell. But, the youthful mischief lingering in his blue eyes is alluring, especially when paired with his cute sunburnt cheeks, and the big grin showing the cute gap in his teeth—did you say he’s cute already?

As they near the cart, you notice that Brown-eyes (you’ve decided on using descriptors because of the lack of names) shares the same eye shape as the older man you’ve served. He must be his son, or related to him at least. Blue-eyes must be a friend, or family, you suppose, if he acquired all the recessive traits during his genetic raffle. You exchange greetings with the two, dismissing the shakiness of the younger’s voice as shyness.

“¿Algo que quieran beber, señores?”

“Can you ask her if she has anything non-alcoholic?” The British-accented English spills from Blue-eyes’s mouth, and you understand that his greeting sounded nervous because of his lack of fluency.

“I do have a selection of non-alcoholic drinks—,” you start, smiling as all three men look surprised at your code-switching, “—That I can tell you about in English if you’d like?”

“Oh, I would like that very much, please,” the words tumble from Blue-eyes in one breath, the Spanish men laughing at his relief of being able to communicate in his native tongue.

“Not fluent in Spanish yet, huh?” You tease him lightly, with a soft smile to communicate your lightheartedness.

“I have terrible teachers,” Blue-eyes laughs pitchily, and both Spaniards gasp in faux-dismay of his words as he continues, “If you couldn’t tell.”

“I am not a terrible teacher,” Brown-eyes clarifies, accent curling around his words, “You just do not listen to me when I try to teach you!”

“That’s not my fault! How am I supposed to stay focused when I’m talking to you?”

Brown-eyes seems surprised at that response, his eyes appearing to widen even more at the words. Blue-eyes realizes what he said during the pause of banter, his cheeks flushing even redder beneath his sun-baked skin.

“Well,” you clear your throat, eager to dismiss whatever that was about, “While I don’t know if he’s a bad teacher or not—I can assure you that I’m a great teacher when it comes to the non-alcoholic drinks I can serve you today!”

All three men seem to relax at your seamless dismissal, and you can feel Brown-eyes look at you thoughtfully as you ramble a relaxed script about what you're carrying to Blue-eyes. There’s a brief moment where Blue-eyes turns to his(?) father, for his opinion on what he should order, and you look away, making eye contact with Brown-eyes. His eyes are softer, and he nods at you, as if in thanks for your earlier redirection. You do the same, and shrug your shoulders lightly as if to say, “All good.”

Blue-eyes’ voice calls for your attention as he orders a refreshing virgin cocktail, and you turn to start mixing it for him.

“You know,” you think aloud, “If you ordered an alcoholic drink, I wouldn’t believe you’re old enough to be served?”

“Hey! I’m twenty-one, I can even drink in America now!”

You turn to look at him with narrowed eyes, tilting your head to the side dramatically before shaking your head as if you don’t believe him. Brown-eyes and his dad (you’re confident in their relationship), chuckle at this interaction, in a way that leads you to believe they’ve heard it before.

“Aww,” you coo, as you salt the rim of his plastic cup, “Twenty-one! You’re such a baby! I would think your I.D. is fake if I ever saw it.”

“I’m not a baby,” Blue-eyes pouts, his eyes brightening as he thinks of a response, “Wait—well, you look too young to be serving alcohol!”

“I’m taking that as a compliment, not an insult since I’m older than you. Beautiful brown skin like mine doesn’t show age, at least that’s what my mom says. Anyways—there’s nothing wrong with being baby-faced, it means you look young for longer.”

Blue-eyes ponders that train of thought as you add a slice of lime as garnish. You hand the drink off to him, waiting for him to take a sip to see if it’s to his liking. His eyes flutter shut as he swallows, with a tiny moan of approval following, and wow, that sounded like a different type of moan. It’s enough to cause your mind to drift to other scenarios where you may be blessed to hear that noise in, and you make the mistake of letting your gaze cross Brown-eyes again.

There’s a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and his eyebrow is raised at you slightly—like he’s aware of your train of thought. Hmm, you think, is that because he’s experienced the same train of thought as yourself, or is it because he’s gotten to hear that beautiful sound in the way you want to? It’s also possible that he thinks you’re just desperate, too. You blink at him, forcing your expression to remain innocent, before Blue-eyes speaks gleefully, breaking the tension once more.

“This is the best drink I’ve ever had!”

You’ve heard those words hundreds of times on the course, but hearing them from him has you suddenly feeling bashful, waving his words away with a hand before you address Brown-eyes.

“¿Para beber, señor?”

“Please, cálmate. I thought you were talking to my father,” he responds, and the older gentlemen, confirming your suspicions about his relation, laughs.

“And—there’s no need to call me sir. Not in this context.”

Blue-eyes chokes on his drink next to you and it’s enough to distract you from responding to whatever that was supposed to imply. Okay, you panic internally, you’re either just a freak, or these two fine men are freaks themselves, and they’re not hiding it. Maybe, they even want you to join—okay, calm down you harlot. The men roughly pat his back to clear his airways and Blue-eyes reddens, you hope it’s due to embarrassment and not lack of oxygen. When it’s clear that he isn’t at risk for dying, Brown-eyes does take a bottle of beer off your hands.

“Have you been working here for a while?” The dad inquires, pulling you away from that mind-boggling exchange and into another bout of small talk while you dispose of the bottle caps.

“Sí, señor. This is my fourth summer here.”

“What?!” The two younger men, both exclaim, shocked at your answer.

“We’ve been coming here regularly since 2019 and we’ve never run into you before?” Blue-eyes continues, perplexed.

“Really? Wow, that’s terrible luck. I guess I’ve only worked shifts when you all aren’t here,” you theorize, cleaning out the shaker you used for his mocktail.

“Why would it be ‘terrible luck?’” Brown-eyes asks with a painfully cute, confused tilt to his brows.

“It might be my last day,” you nod sadly, as all three men indulge you with sounds of dissent, “I know, sad, isn’t it?”

“But, why?” asks the dad, “Are they treating you badly here? Because I’ll talk to them for you. You seem like such a hardworking young woman.”

“Nonono, they treat me very well, there’s no need for threats! I’m just too hardworking. It’s just—I think it might be time for a change, you know?”

“We don’t know, actually,” Blue-eyes, offers smartly, “But, I wanna know. I like you, I think you’re interesting, and I’m invested now.”

You force the urge to giggle hysterically down as your brain screams, He said he likes you! That sounds like he’s in love with you! The cacophony of your subconscious gnawing at the bars of its enclosure rattles around your skull.

You stare at them for a second, determining whether or not you should share your personal life with three strangers you're being paid to serve drinks to on a golf course. So, of course, you explain your very simple dilemma to the men. Do you quit your summer job because you’re afraid it might be too much to handle on top of getting your PhD and working an office job? Or, do you continue to work on the green because you’ve genuinely only ever enjoyed your time here, because it’s extra money in your pocket, because you’ve fallen in love with Spain, and because it keeps you near your family?

“I think you should stay.”

“Obviously, stay.”

“Sí, stay.”

You laugh abruptly at the answers. You’re ninety-five percent sure their answers are drenched with an ulterior motive—well, the two younger men's responses are.

“You like it here,” Blue-eyes starts earnestly, “I figure that getting a PhD is a lot of hard work, but why don’t you at least try it out for one more summer? If it’s too much, you don’t have to come back after that, right?”

The clock inside the cart blares its alarm for the end of your shift. You reach inside and shut it off before turning back to look at Blue-eyes thoughtfully, “I guess you’re right.”

“And…if you stay for another summer, there’s a chance we will see you again, no?” Brown-eyes jumps in.

“I would say the odds are pretty low, as this is the first time I’ve served you guys over four summers,” you joke back. That’s the reality of the situation, though. The first time you run into hot men who are your type and around your age range. You have to cope with the fact that you’ll never see them again. You’re the one with the terrible luck.

You tap the ledge of the cart off-handedly as you begin to ring up their drinks in the mobile register, pausing briefly to look up with a polite smile, “Is there anything else I can get for anybody before I head out today?”

Blue-eyes and Brown-eyes turn to whisper to each other, the older gentleman snorts, exchanging thanks with you and well wishes for your future before he walks back over to their equipment, leaving the younger men to close out the tab.

“Yes,” Blue-eyes clears his throat, “Can I have a ‘Sip of Sunshine?’”

You can’t recall ever carrying any beverage with that name and telling him as such, “Sorry, I don’t think we sell that. Is it a beer, or a cocktail—”

“You’re the sip of sunshine,” Brown-eyes interrupts you, twin smiles of pride painted on both men’s faces.

You laugh freely. It’s the most pleasant experience you’ve had being flirted with on the green. “I think that was the worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard!”

Brown-eyes rolls his eyes at your response lightly, giving you his credit card to pay, while Blue-eyes cheeses at you, “It made you laugh though. And, I think it made you blush too.”

“It did, but, the blush might be more of sunburn though,” you grin back at him, handing the mobile register to Brown-eyes for him to sign and tip, if he chooses. You avoid looking at the screen as he hands it back, placing it securely in the cart.

“Wait,” Brown-eyes calls, as you slide into the driver’s seat, “We never got your name?”

“You mean you never read the name tag that’s been clipped to my collar the entire time we’ve been talking?” You pester back, amused.

“We were too busy being distracted by how pretty you are,” Blue-eyes counters.

“Ah, that’s unfortunate,” you giggle, your flushed cheeks a definite result of the conversation and not the radiating sun, “I never got your names either?”

“Carlos,” Brown-eyes answers, “He’s Lando.”

“I can speak for myself you know,” Blue-eyes, Lando, sasses back. He pinches Carlos’ arm, causing the man to yelp and pull away from his side, and Lando takes the chance to address you again, “Will we see you next summer?”

“Oh, I hope not,” Carlos and Lando’s mouths drop open incredulously, “I don’t know how much more of your terrible flirting I can take!”

You smile at your own words, starting the cart and driving away from the green with a self-satisfied wave in their direction. You pray for your boss to still be in his office—you need to let him know that you’ve finally come to a decision about returning next year.

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