Isla woke to the sound of Tiff shrieking.

This wasn't unusual; Tiff was often shrieking at 7 o'clock in the morning. Her flatmate religiously walked on the treadmill with either a book or something on the telly. Made in Chelsea; the Mortal Instruments; Brokeback Mountain — Tiff's tastes were varied but predictable. If it involved hot people making bad decisions, then Tiff would enjoy it.

No.

The shrieking wasn't unusual.

Bursting into Isla's room, however, was new.

"Look!" The door flew open with a bang. "Look at this!"

Something collided with her face. It took Isla a moment to realize that it was a tabloid. A very sweaty, damp tabloid.

"Look!" Tiff flung herself onto the bed. "This is major." The bed bobbed underneath her. Something smelled of rotten eggs. "First page. You can't miss it."

Isla wrinkled her nose. "Oh, gross, Tiff. You smell."

"You aren't looking!"

"Can't I look later?" Isla moaned. "I'm sleeping."

"Isla Morris." Tiff hopped to her feet, planting her hands on her hips: a position that Isla privately referred to as Pissed-Off-Doctor-Tiff-Look. "Get your head off that goddamn pillow and look at the magazine."

"Fine," Isla groused, snatching up the tabloid. "But if you woke me up to look at another column about Kate Middleton's hair, I'll kill you. Slowly. I—"

She froze.

Because the first page was a picture of her. Her and Matthew, to be specific, exiting a restaurant in Barcelona; his arm was draped around her shoulders, and he was smiling down at her, his hair tinged red by a neon sign. Isla was laughing in the picture, her head thrown back, white skirt blown up by an invisible breeze.

I look happy, Isla thought in surprise, and then immediately regretted it. It didn't matter if she looked happy. It was all an act.

Tiff was practically jumping up and down. "Isn't it cool?"

Isla scanned the headline. Matthew Carr-ouses in Spain: F1 Star Steps Out With His Teammate's Ex-Girlfriend! "Nice use of pun."

"Really?" Tiff stopped jumping. "That's all you have to say?"

"Er." Isla paused. "Thanks for letting me borrow your dress?"

"Oh, my god." Tiff plucked the tabloid out her hand, smacking her on the shoulder with it. "You are the worst. The worst!"

"Ow!" Isla rubbed her arm reproachfully. "Jesus, Tiff."

Tiff ignored her. "I can't believe it. This—" She brandished the magazine. "—is proof that I was right. Look at how happy you were last weekend, Isla. Not with Lucas. With Matthew." The word was pointed. "Do I need to get my phoropter so you can have a closer look?"

Isla frowned. "Did you just make a medical joke?"

"Forget it. Not the point. I—"

Isla's phone dinged.

Tiff looked at Isla; Isla looked at Tiff. As one, they both dove for it, knocking over a bottle of coconut-scented lotion. The phone slid under the bed. Isla leapt for it, but Tiff was faster, striking like a snake. She emerged, triumphantly waggling it.

"It's from Matthew," Tiff sing-songed. "Your boyfriend."

She dragged the word out. Isla crossed her arms as Tiff leapt up on the bed. "What are we? Ten?"

"Don't be silly," Tiff said. "Most ten-year-olds are taller than you."

"Tiff!"

"What?" She grinned, typing in Isla's password. "It's true."

"Give me that!"

Isla lunged for the phone, but Tiff was quicker, bounding backwards. She sat on top of the headboard, her painted blue toenails swinging merrily. "Oh, I put condoms in your suitcase for Monaco. Just in case."

"I'm going to kill you," Isla growled. "Put your treadmill on high, strap you to it, and shave all of your skin off."

"So violent." Tiff winked. "I like it." She cleared her throat, her eyes on the text. "I dreamt that I was swimming in a sea of pasta. Bolognese, to be specific. It was delicious." She stared at the screen. "Good lord. Is this Matthew's idea of flirting?"

Isla couldn't help her goofy smile. She held out a hand.

"Give it here," she said.

This time, Tiff complied.

I dreamt that I was being chased by monkeys in the desert, Isla typed. Benedict was there, driving a beat-up van. He was eaten by a monkey.

Her phone pinged.

Benedict would be horrified.

Agreed, Isla typed back. Being eaten alive isn't ideal.

Her phone chimed again.

No. I meant the part about driving a second-hand car.

Isla's smile grew. It had become a silly tradition between the two of them; in the six days they'd been apart, Matthew had texted her his dreams every morning, and she'd texted back. It was stupid. Pointless.

And yet, Isla looked forward to it.

"You see?" Tiff jabbed a finger at her. "Look at that smile. You loooove him!" She leapt off the bed, doing a little dance. "You want to kiiiss him!"

Isla threw a hair scrunchie at her. "Go back to your workout, you idiot." She pocketed her phone. "You smell, and I need to finish packing."

"Fine." Tiff grinned. "Don't forget to bring the nightgowns."

"I'm not bringing the nightgowns."

"And more condoms."

"Tiff!"

Isla threw a paperclip. Tiff ducked, cackling maniacally as she shot out of the room. Isla chased her halfway down the corridor, pelting stationary as she went. Clips and pencils bounced harmlessly off the walls.

"For the record," Isla called, "I've packed flannel! Thick flannel." She raised her voice. "Did you hear me, Tiff? I'm not bringing the nightgowns!"

It was true. For the most part, anyway; she'd thrown in one nightgown at the last minute, just in case. But that was necessary, Isla reasoned, in case the weather was too hot for flannel. It had nothing to do with Matthew.

She wasn't sleeping with Matthew Carr.

Not ever.

Matthew picked her up at the airport.

Isla couldn't have missed him. Firstly, because Matthew was surrounded by no fewer than twelve camera-wielding paparazzi, eagerly shouting his name. And secondly, because Matthew was wearing a tail. A sparkly red tail.

Isla blinked. What on earth?

"Hi, baby," Matthew called. "Good flight?"

Isla nodded distractedly. She was so focused on the sequined tail that it took her a moment to process when Matthew wrapped an arm around her waist, tipped her chin up, and kissed her deeply.

Delicious heat shot through her.

She responded instinctively, rising on her tiptoes, a sunflower seeking the sun. He tasted of coffee and mint, sunshine and comfort. He tasted like Matthew. She hadn't even realized that there was such a thing, or that she'd be able to identify it.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over.

Matthew stepped back. Isla searched his gaze, entirely lost, and then it struck her. Of course, she thought, there are cameras here.

Matthew's blue eyes twinkled, and he lowered his mouth to her ear. "I have a surprise for you in the car, Red. Let's go."

He scooped up her duffel bag, slinging it easily over one shoulder. Isla let him guide her out of the airport. She'd half-expected to see a limo idling nearby — when Matthew said he'd pick her up, she assumed that it meant his driver would pick her up, like Lucas always had — but Matthew led her to a blue Ferrari.

"This is my baby." He patted the hood fondly. "Isla, meet Stitch."

"Stitch?"

"Like Lilo and Stitch?" Seeing her blank look, Matthew shook his head. "Good god, woman, you need an education. Let's go."

She swung into the passenger seat. Matthew popped her suitcase in the trunk, ducking as he slid into the driver's seat. Then he reached up to adjust his hair. No, not his hair, Isla realized in surprise: his ears. Red cat ears.

"What," Isla said, horrified, "are you wearing?"

Matthew grinned. "Do you like it?"

"It's very shiny."

"Good. It's meant to be." Matthew reached into the backseat of the car, thrusting an armful of white fabric at her. "This is for you."

She stared. "What is it?"

Matthew gestured for her to proceed. She examined the pieces one-by-one: a halo; a set of gossamer wings; a frothy white dress. It was the sort of thing worn solely by children trick-or-treating or strippers.

Isla arched an eyebrow. "Bit soon for roleplay, don't you think?"

Matthew's mouth quirked. "The yacht party's themed. Sinners and Saints." He started the engine. "As you can see, I'm the Devil."

"Really?" Isla arched an eyebrow. "I thought you were a cat."

"Hilarious."

Isla hadn't been joking, but she didn't have the heart to tell him so. Instead, she pressed her face to the window, watching as the city blurred by in a whirl of palm trees, towering cliffs, and designer shops. It wasn't until the car rambled towards the glittering blue water that Isla twisted to face him.

"Hang on. Are we going to the yacht party right now?"

Matthew gave her an odd look. "Did you think I brought that costume for you to wear around the hotel?"

Yes. No. Isla licked her lips. She'd been too busy thinking about the fact that Matthew made an unfairly handsome devil. He could drag a woman into the depths of Hell, and she'd probably smile and thank him for it.

Not that Isla was about to admit that.

"Alright," Isla said gamely. "Let's go, then." She unbuckled her seatbelt. "Get out so I can change."

She half-expected Matthew to make a lewd comment, but he merely winked, standing in front of the windows so that any view of her was blocked. Isla sized up the white dress. After two minutes of wiggling, thirty seconds of bending, and ten seconds of grunting, she managed to get the blasted thing on — including the corset in the back.

It was a miracle.

"Okay," Isla announced, stepping out of the car. "I'm ready."

"Good." Matthew turned. "I'm impressed that you—"

He broke off, a series of emotions flitting across his face. Awe. Pride. And lust; she saw that, too. Isla watched, breathless, as he prowled towards her. But Matthew only adjusted her halo, smiling his crooked smile.

"Beautiful," Matthew murmured. "Like always."

He offered her his hand.

Isla trailed him onto the boat. Well, boat wasn't really an apt description, Isla thought wryly; it was more like a floating nightclub. Bass music rocked the vessel. Beautiful girls in colorful masks walked on stilts, spraying champagne over the crowd. The scent of expensive cologne and wine hung in the air, mixing with Monaco's salt spray.

Isla dodged a fire-wielding clown. "Does this boat belong to Ferrari?"

Matthew shook his head. "Monty Sullivan." He helped her step over a puddle of what was either champagne or urine. "He's an American driver for Williams. The entire family's minted. Nice bloke."

Isla craned her neck. "Is Cedro here?"

"Somewhere," said Matthew.

"Noah?"

"On the dance floor, I'm sure."

"Good heavens," Isla said mildly. "Is the entire grid here?"

Matthew's mouth flattened. "I'm sure Saint Lucas is around, if that's what you're asking."

It hadn't been, actually, but Isla froze. Lucas. How could she have forgotten? That was the entire point of tonight. Matthew looked away, and a strange combination of longing and hurt made Isla's chest tighten.

"Matthew..."

He dropped her hand. "I'll get us some drinks. Stay here, alright?"

"Wait!" she called.

But Matthew was already gone, vanishing into the crowd. Isla leaned against the railing of the ship, rubbing her arms. Damn. Should she go after him? But there were a million people here. She'd never find him.

"Isla," a low voice said.

"Matthew," Isla said in relief, turning. "I didn't mean to—"

She broke off. Lucas Walsh stood behind her, his large hands shoved into his pockets. Or sort of pockets, anyway; he was dressed in what appeared to be a large brown sac. His dark hair was combed back, and his face was a little pale.

"Oh," she said. "Hi."

His throat bobbed. "You look beautiful."

"Thanks."

An uncomfortable silence fell. Both of them spoke at the same time.

"Look," Lucas blurted, "I'm sorry that I—"

"I never should have—"

They both paused, smiling awkwardly at one another. Lucas reached up to scratch at his hair, and something green winked at his wrist. The emerald cufflinks, Isla realized, the ones she'd given him as an anniversary gift. He was still wearing them.

A lump rose in her throat.

"Sorry," Lucas said sheepishly. "God, you'd think after four years of dating that I wouldn't be nervous around you, but I am." He dropped his hand. "It's like I'm meeting you again for the first time."

The lump grew thicker. "I like your costume."

She didn't. She hated it. Lucas could either be dressed as a monk, a gravedigger, or a jacket potato. But Isla was trying, and Lucas seemed to know it.

"Thanks," Lucas said ruefully. "Honestly, I just forgot to pick something up. I'm getting better at planning things, but you were always the one to..." He looked down, shuffling his feet. "Well. Anyway."

"It's very inventive," Isla offered.

His smile softened. "Remember that Halloween party we went to in Sussex? Where we dressed as pirates?"

Isla groaned. "You snuck in an actual parrot."

"But it got loose."

"Oh, my god." Isla covered her eyes. "Didn't it poop all over Fran Gibbons' Little Bo Peep dress? I thought she was going to bludgeon you to death with her crook."

Lucas grinned. "I would have let her."

"Well," Isla said, "I would have defended you."

"I know." His smile wobbled. "I miss you, Isla. What happened between us—"

"Don't." Panic zipped through her. "Please don't. Not here."

Lucas ignored her. He steeled himself, like a soldier preparing to step on a grenade. "I can't stop thinking about you, Isla. Seeing you with Matt... it kills me. Every time I see you together, I die a little more inside. I can't keep doing this. I can't."

"You hurt me," Isla whispered. "After everything we'd been through together, you broke up with me in Australia. Australia. I was alone, Lucas." She wrapped her arms around herself. "And then showing up to the party and seeing you with that girl... Do you know how much of an idiot I felt like?"

"I'm not with her anymore," Lucas said quickly.

"It doesn't matter."

His tone sharpened. "Because you're with Matt?"

Isla didn't answer. Lucas stepped forward, his face very intent. Panic flared through her. She'd seen that look on his face before — hacking away at weeds in the garden or overtaking another driver — but the sight of it here frightened her. It felt wrong. Foreign.

"Give me one more shot, Isla," he said softly.

She pushed at his chest. "Lucas, don't."

"One more chance." He raised a hand to her face. "I won't fuck it up this time. I'll take care of you. I promise."

"Stop!"

Isla batted him away. The iron railing dug into her back. Isla felt her heart skitter, frantic as a butterfly in a cage. She'd imagined this moment a hundred times since the break-up, but not like this. Never like this. Matthew, she thought desperately, where are you?

"It's okay," Lucas murmured. "I'll make it okay."

He leaned down and kissed her.