"You know," Matthew said, "I think I like this better."

He reclined in a seat, a family-sized bucket of popcorn resting on his lap. Outside, the Sao Paulo heat was creeping into the air-conditioned garage, warm and thick as soup. Crew members gathered around a large flat-screen television, fanning themselves with various objects: hands and rolled-up newspapers, wrenches and oil-stained cloths.

Isla frowned. "What's better?"

"Sitting here," Matthew said. "In the garage."

She threw a popcorn kernel at Matthew. "You're such a liar."

"Am I?" Matthew grinned. "I don't get popcorn when I'm driving."

"True."

He raised a half-drunk glass. "And I don't get beer."

Isla wrinkled her nose, swirling her own glass; it smelled vaguely of piss and old gym socks. "If you can call whatever this is beer."

"And," Matthew said, "I don't get the company of a judgemental ginger woman."

"Goodness," Isla said mildly. "Is there another woman with red hair around?" She glanced around the Ferrari garage. "I don't see her."

Matthew looked alarmed. "Careful, Red. You're starting to sound like me."

"Now that's a terrifying thought."

Matthew winked. A sudden shout went up around the garage, and it took Isla a moment to realize why; the start timer had blinked on. Twenty cars started their engines. Matthew's eyes were glued to the television, the popcorn in his lap forgotten. A pang of sympathy went through her.

She nudged him with her leg. "You'll be out there next season."

"I know," Matthew said.

Another light blinked on. "How was Alek?"

"A nervous wreck."

"Really?"

"No." Matthew tore his eyes away from the screen long enough to give her a wry smile. "He was eating canned tuna and shouting at an intern. That's his idea of a good time, for the record. He does it for sport."

"I'm surprised Alek isn't nervous."

"What's there to be nervous about?" Matthew shrugged, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "Lucas is World Champion. Ferrari wins again."

Matthew almost managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Almost. Isla leaned over, stealing a handful of popcorn.

"Unless Cedro wins today," she said lightly. "Then Lucas won't be Champion."

"Cedro's starting P8."

"So?"

Matthew gave her an exasperated look. "So I love Cedro, but his odds of becoming World Champion are about the same as Gordon Ramsay enjoying an undercooked chicken for dinner. No, Walsh will crush him. He won't win today."

Isla frowned. "Well, not with that attitude. I—"

"Hang on." Matthew leaned forward. "It's starting."

He was right.

Five lights blinked off. All the cars shot forward. And a commentator — English and sounding as if he was hopped up on life, or cocaine, or maybe both — shouted into a microphone. "And it's lights off and away we go!"

Isla nibbled her lip, watching as a white Alpine car sped around a corner. Please, Cedro, she thought. Prove Matthew wrong.

Prove everyone wrong.

Cedro was obviously thinking along the same lines. He shot past Noah, then floored it down the straight. Cheers erupted from the crowd. The commentator was speaking so fast that Isla was beginning to wish for subtitles.

"Fontana is smashing it," the man said. "An absolutely unbelievable performance! Fontana is creeping up on Brett Hunt. Can he make it into P6? He goes for the pass and— oh no! Something's gone wrong; Fontana is spinning!"

Cedro was indeed spinning.

Dirt flew up. Tyres squealed. Isla gripped the seat until she could feel her pulse, fast and insistent, and then Cedro's car corrected itself. She blew out a breath as Cedro limped towards the pitlane.

Matthew — who had half-risen from his seat — swore viciously. "There's no coming back from that. He's done."

"What happened?"

"Double tyre puncture." Matthew sank into his seat. "See?" He nodded at the screen, where Cedro was idling into the pits. "Two of his tyres have popped. Alpine will have to retire the car. They..." Matthew frowned, his hand hovering in the popcorn. "Hang on. What the bloody hell is Cedro doing?"

Tyres were changed. Cedro started his engine. Isla watched, mouth open, as Cedro tore out of the pits, his car back up to full capacity.

Hope swelled in her chest. "He's going back out."

"That's impossible," Matthew said.

"Evidently not."

"He's lost his mind." Matthew shook his head. "He's a lap behind everyone else, and he's driving a mid-field car. There's no way he'll catch them."

"Well," Isla said dryly, "I guess nobody's told him that."

Cedro picked up the speed. He passed three cars. Another five. By halfway through the race, he'd climbed back up to tenth place. Matthew was back on his feet, shouting at the television, popcorn flying in every direction.

Cedro pulled into sixth place. Fourth.

The crowd was screaming encouragement. A camera panned to Cedro's mother, her hand over her mouth, a silver cross clutched in the other. Isla felt a swell of pride. No matter what happened today, Cedro had given his family this. His parents had given him faith, and he'd nurtured it into a miracle.

Cedro passed Brett Hunt, moving into third place.

"This is madness," Matthew said hoarsely. "He's on the podium, now. Ced could win this race. He could be World Champion."

Isla squeezed his hand.

The commentator's words came in a rush. "Fontana speeds past Gabe Vincent, up to second position! Only a driver of his calibre could pull this off right now."

Cedro shot forward, just behind Lucas. Isla glanced at the sidebar; only three laps to go. There was a half-second gap between the two drivers. Her wine was shaking, and it took her a moment to realize that it was because her hands were shaking.

"He's going to win," she whispered.

Matthew shook his head. "I don't believe it."

"Matthew." Something fragile bloomed in her chest. "He's going to win!"

"He still has to pass Lucas."

"How many laps to go?" She couldn't bear to look.

"One." Matthew's lips were pressed together, chapped and bloodless. "Come on, Ced. Come on, come on."

The cars approached the finish line.

Isla thought of Cedro's face on the rooftop in Barcelona that night. The way he'd fiddled with his dinky plastic umbrella, and the sheepish look on his face as he'd explained his break-up with Sofia. She wanted to date someone successful.

She thought of how grateful Cedro was to his family. How he'd bought them a house with his first paycheck. She thought of Lucas and all the other drivers that laughed behind Cedro's back. Just the charity case from Italy, they'd say, driving a mid-field car; he was a talented driver, but he'd never win.

A fire burned in her.

She rose. "Go on, Cedro!"

Matthew clutched the seat, his eyes trained on the screen. Sweat beaded his forehead. He was leaning forward in a way that suggested he was strongly tempted to dive through the screen and help push Cedro's car to the finish line.

Cedro shot forward. Isla held her breath.

He sped past Lucas.

His car crossed the finish line.

A deafening roar went up. Isla clutched at Matthew's arm, and then they were dancing around the garage, grinning at each other like idiots. Someone was singing a bawdy ballad. It took her a moment to realize that it was Matthew.

"And he's done it!" The commentator sounded on the verge of tears. "Cedro Fontana has just won the Brazilian Grand Prix and the World Championship! I don't believe it, chaps, I really don't!"

"He won!" Isla flung her arms around Matthew. "He won, he won!"

"Bloody hell," Matthew said, spinning her around. "He's done it! Cedro's actually gone and done it."

Outside, thousands of cheers thundered around the track. The camera panned to Cedro, who was kneeling in front of his car, the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes. His shoulders were shaking in a way that suggested he was bawling. Isla felt a swell of happiness, so sudden and fierce that she felt dizzy.

"Come on," Matthew said, holding out a hand. "Let's go congratulate the winner."

They sprinted towards the track. She was shedding popcorn kernels, drunk on the joy of the moment. Matthew squeezed her hand. He was focused on Cedro, his blue eyes shining, the colour of wildflowers by the sea—

Isla stumbled.

Oh, hell.

Matthew.

She bit her lip. Matthew was putting on a brave face, but this was his dream. Would he be able to watch as Cedro mounted the podium? Drank a shoe filled with champagne? Held up a trophy as the crowd roared its approval?

Matthew stopped, his face a study in wary concern.

"Isla?"

"I'm proud of you." She touched his face. "I just want you to know that. It can't be easy, standing here as Cedro holds up a trophy, and I'm so proud of you for cheering him on. You're so generous. And kind. And brilliant and talented. And I—"

"Red?" Matthew interrupted.

"Yeah?"

His mouth quirked. "As much as I love compliments — and trust me, I do — I'm not upset."

"Really?"

"Really," Matthew said firmly. "Besides, I've won the real prize."

"Free popcorn?"

She expected him to smile, but Matthew grew very serious. He turned her until they were half-concealed below the stands. Peppercorn and mint clung to his clothes, mixing with the peaty smell of beer, and her head swum pleasantly. Matthew's gaze was intense, his blue eyes the colour of faded jeans.

"You amaze me, Isla Morris. Every day, I wake up and I look at your face, and I fall in love with you all over again. Hopelessly. Unavoidably. There has never been a choice for me; I was made to love you. And I like to think that you were made for me, too."

Her throat swelled. "Matthew..."

"Yes, my darling?"

"Can we skip the after party?"

His mouth pulled up. "What did you have in mind?"

"You," Isla said. "And me. And perhaps a hotel room, a bottle of red wine, and room service." She tilted her head back, her heart pounding in her chest, as if it could escape into his. "No other company allowed."

"Oh, I don't know," Matthew said airily. "I was hoping to invite one of your nightgowns to the party."

She considered this. "I'll allow an exception."

"It's a plan."

Isla bit her lip, glancing towards the pulsating crowd. The crushing roar raced towards them, wrapping around their private bubble, a river hammering at a stone. "Will Cedro care if we ditch the party?"

"He'll be too drunk to notice."

"And you don't mind?"

"There will be other parties," Matthew said. "A whole lifetime full." He slung an arm around her shoulder. "Don't worry, Red; we've got time."