Isla always saw the car first.

The Williams was a twisted pile of rubble, smoking gently, a tea kettle under pressure. There weren't any flames. She remembered thinking that was strange. I can smell the burning hair, she'd thought numbly. Where's the fire?

In her nightmare, Isla heard screaming. There hadn't been any that day. She'd been too far away from the crowd, and Sebastián hadn't spoken. Not at first. But this was a dream, and the rules here were different.

A disembodied voice began to sing.

Fire, wire, glass or gas;

If you see these, do not pass.

It was a rhyme that Isla had learned during a lifeguarding course when she was fifteen. She'd thought of it in Monaco, looking at all the glass and bits of burning tyre. In her nightmare, it was usually her mother singing it. Occasionally, it was Matthew.

Sebastián's voice came next.

"Help! Ayúdame!"

Isla surged towards him, but the glass cut up her feet. She wasn't wearing shoes. Slow, she thought, I'm too slow. Sebastián screamed in agony.

"Mamá!"

Panic ripped through her. She hurtled towards the burning car, but it slid away, always a step out of reach. Burning glass cut into her toes.

"Ayúdame, por favor, Mamá, me da miedo la oscuridad!"

"Sebastián!" The word was ripped from her throat. "I'm coming!"

His cries of agony grew louder. The car shrunk back.

"Please," Isla sobbed, and now she was the one begging, crawling on hands and knees over broken glass. "Please, somebody help us! Help him!"

Something shook her. An earthquake?

"Red," a voice said. "Wake up."

"Please," Isla gasped, her chest tightening. "Please. Save him!"

"Isla!"

She jolted awake.

A dark figure loomed over her. She caught the slice of a cheekbone, the hint of a strong jaw. Lucas, she thought in relief, and then froze. The person had blond hair. Why did he have blond hair? Fresh panic washed over her.

She swung out instinctively.

"Isla," the person grunted, forcing her hand to the mattress. "It's okay. Calm down."

She thrashed. "Let—me—go—!"

"It's me." The voice was low and insistent and achingly familiar. "Look at me, Isla. You're here with me. You're safe."

Isla blinked. Blue eyes swum into view, and she stilled. She knew those eyes; normally they were glittering or teasing, but now they were dark with worry, the exact shade of the sky before a storm.

"Matthew?" she whispered.

He released her hands. "You had a nightmare."

"Oh, god." Embarrassment flooded her. "I'm sorry. I didn't think I'd..." She sat up, rubbing at her wrist. At the tiny scar on her palm. "I haven't had a nightmare in a while. I thought they were gone."

Matthew's face softened. "You don't have to apologize." He hesitated. "You dreamt of him, didn't you? Sebastián."

She looked down. "Yes."

"God." Matthew blew out a breath. "I wish..." His brow furrowed, as if he was searching for the right words. "If I could take your pain away — if I could have the nightmares instead of you — I'd do it. In a heartbeat."

"I believe you." And she did.

Matthew slumped back against the headboard. He was sharper at night, all harsh lines and angles; moonlight pooled in the hollows of his collarbones, kissing the skin at his throat. Isla wrenched her eyes away.

"Did you know," Matthew said conversationally, "that my brother and I used to have bunkbeds?"

Isla stared. "You and Benedict?"

His mouth formed the ghost of a smile. "I know. It's hard to believe, isn't it? But we were close once. Ben used to eat all the cauliflower on my plate when Mum wasn't looking so that I wouldn't get in trouble." He twined his hands together. "Anyway. Whenever I had a nightmare, Benedict would tell me what he dreamed about. We could share his dream, he'd say. Pretend we both dreamt it."

"Why?"

"To make me feel better."

Matthew gave her a pointed look. Isla caught on.

"And what did you dream of tonight, Matthew Carr?"

Matthew's smile grew. "Thank-you for asking me, Isla Morris. I dreamt that I was an ice cream cone."

Incredulity filled her. "An ice cream cone?"

"A chocolate one. I was on the Santa Monica pier dripping all over a sleeping golden labradoodle. The poor owner was in for one hell of a surprise when he came back from his swim."

A startled laugh escaped her. "You're making that up."

"It's true." Matthew held up a hand. "Swear on my life."

"You're right." She smiled. "That did make me feel better."

Matthew lay down on his side. Isla rolled to face him, her hands tucked under one cheek. They were eye-to-eye. Nose-to-nose. His breath stirred her face, and Isla wanted to close her eyes, to bury her head under one of his strong arms.

But she didn't.

Obviously.

"Come to Monaco with me," Matthew murmured. "Next weekend."

All thoughts of cuddling vanished.

"I have to work," Isla said, which was true.

"Just for the weekend," Matthew said. "Just for a day. Whatever you want."

"I can't." Her voice was sharp.

"There's going to be a yacht party on Saturday. With an open bar. Walsh — he'll be there." Matthew's jaw hardened. "It would be... I mean, it's an opportunity for you to speak with him. Alone."

The words cost him; Isla could see that. She just wasn't sure why. Masculine pride, perhaps? Was Matthew worried that other guests would see his girlfriend talking to another man and pity him for it? Judge him?

In the end, it didn't matter.

She couldn't go to Monaco.

"You don't understand, Matt." Her voice was desperate. "These nightmares, that time in the alleyway outside the restaurant — I keep seeing Sebastian's face, over and over again. It haunts me. I can't go to Monaco. Not after last year."

Matthew's face softened. "I won't make you go. Not if you don't want. But Red..." He touched his hand to her cheek. "I've learned over the years that there's two types of fear: the fear that lights a fire under your belly, and the fear that smothers it." His voice was a murmur. "Don't let your fire go out, Isla."

She wanted to lean into his touch. Wanted it so badly that it frightened her.

"I'm scared," Isla whispered.

His fingers stilled. "I'll be with you the whole time."

"What if I can't do it?"

"Then we'll leave." Matthew dropped his hand, the warmth falling away. "Say the words and we'll go back to England."

"You can't leave," Isla said. "You have to race."

He shrugged, as if this was hardly an issue. "Then I'll fly back to London with you, get on a plane, and fly straight back to Monaco."

Doubt niggled in the darkest parts of her brain. "I'll make things worse for you. You'll be worrying about me. I'll be a burden."

Just like Lucas, a little voice whispered. Lucas thought you were a burden. A distraction. He told you so himself.

As if he could guess her thoughts, Matthew's face tightened. "Listen to me, Red. There's not a single part of me that feels burdened by you. I want you there," he said. "You and your ridiculous nightgowns. Please."

Matthew didn't say, to make Lucas jealous. He didn't say, because I need your help to win. But it didn't matter; Isla knew what she was going to say. Truthfully, she'd known since the beginning of this conversation.

"Okay," Isla said. "I'll come with you."

His shoulders relaxed. "Thank-you."

Isla rolled over, staring up at a white pillar. Monaco. She was going back to Monaco. It was funny, she thought, how Matthew was both the cause and solution to her demons. The seed and the bloom. The knife and the bandage.

They would have to talk about it one day. Acknowledge what happened in Monaco. Work through it. She could tell that Matthew wanted to.

But not yet, Isla thought, her eyes fluttering closed. Not today.

Tomorrow, Isla would fly back to London for the week. She would go for a run in Hyde Park and bandage scraped knees and prescribe asthma medication. She would make heaping bowls of pasta with Tiff and binge the latest season of Bachelor in Paradise.

Yes, there would be time to talk about Monaco.

Eventually.