Isla Morris hadn't planned to die today, but it seemed that the motorcyclists of Barcelona had other plans for her.

She jumped to the pavement. A candy red bike zipped by her, carving around tourists and tandem bikes, palm trees and parks. The scent of sulfur and saltwater hung in the air. She caught snippets of foreign words — buenas tardes — and laughter drifted up from a cobblestone patio.

Another motorcycle ripped past her. Isla let out a yelp.

"Still alive?" Tiff asked.

"Barely," she huffed.

"Not to be a harbinger of doom," Tiff said, "but don't you think it would be ironic if you got hit by a car?" Her flatmate's voice crackled over the phone. "Considering you're dating a race car driver?"

"Again, we're not actually dating." Isla frowned up at a building. "Do you reckon I'm at my hotel already?"

"Does it look hideously expensive?"

"Yup."

"Then yes." Tiff slurped something. Noodles, probably. "I don't understand why you didn't just fly over with Matthew."

Isla sighed. Matthew had invited her to fly over from London with the Ferrari team on a private plane stocked with chocolate bars, heated seats, and rose-scented lotions. The only problem was that it was also stocked with Lucas.

"You know why," Isla said. "He'd be there."

More noodles slurped. "I'm confused. Don't you want Lucas back? Not," Tiff added quickly, "that I'm encouraging it. I am the opposite of encouraging it. Firmly discouraging, for the record."

Isla went through revolving glass doors. "I don't want to see him. Not yet."

"And Matthew?" Tiff asked slyly.

Isla parked her suitcase by a polished table. She was suddenly glad that Tiff couldn't see her face because any mention of Matthew made her think of kissing Matthew. And kissing Matthew had been...

Well.

She wasn't thinking about that.

"Why," Isla said mildly, "would I care about seeing Matthew?"

"Wow." Tiff whistled. "That's some deep denial, babe. If I could lie to myself that well, I'd be out of student debt and own a hundred pairs of shoes."

"And on that note," Isla said, "I think I'll be going. Love you."

Tiff made a kissing noise. "Love you more."

Isla shoved her phone away, dragging her suitcase into a polished lobby. Really. Everything was polished: the teardrop chandelier, the sleek black couches, the marble floor... She had taken exactly two steps through the door before a bellhop darted forward, looking as if he'd also been buffed with a shoe-shiner.

"May I take your suitcase, miss?"

"Oh," Isla said distractedly. "Yes, please. I..." She craned her neck. "Sorry. I'm meant to be meeting someone."

"Matthew Carr?" the bellhop asked.

Isla blinked. Good god. Was this man telepathic? The bellhop must have seen the bewilderment on her face because he flushed. "Mr. Carr told me to look out for a pretty English girl with red hair."

"Oh." Isla's cheeks grew warm. "Well. Thanks."

The bellhop took her suitcase. "Room 625, miss. The Gold Suite." He nodded towards the lift. "Should be on your left."

The room was indeed on her left when she exited the lift. Although, Isla thought in amusement, she really couldn't have missed it; the entire door seemed to be made of solid gold. She knocked on it.

"Matthew?" she called. "It's me."

"It's open." His voice was muffled. "Come in."

Isla pushed the door. She had two seconds to drink in the room — large glass windows, shag carpets, white pillars with gold trim — and then her eyes landed on Matthew. A very naked Matthew.

"Oh, my god!" Isla squealed.

She slapped her hand over her eyes, backpedalling towards the door. Muscles. So many damp, glistening muscles. He must have just gotten out of the shower. Matthew laughed — a low, rough chuckle that sent shivers down her spine — and she heard a click. She'd forgotten to close the door.

"Relax, Red." Matthew's voice was close and amused. "I've got boxers on."

Her cheeks were on fire. "That's not enough clothing!"

"God, your face is priceless," Matthew chuckled. "I had no idea human beings could turn that colour." There was the rustle of fabric, and then the chink of metal. A belt? "Okay, I'm clothed. You can look."

Cautiously, Isla peeled her hand away. Matthew was dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans, his feet bare on the carpet. His blond hair was still damp. There was something shockingly intimate about seeing him like this, and Isla scanned the room, desperately trying to find something to talk about.

Her eyes landed on the bed.

Bed.

Singular.

"Why," Isla said, "is there only one bed?"

Matthew gave her an odd look. "Were we expecting company?"

"I'm not sleeping with you," she said tightly.

"A shame." Matthew winked. "I brought condoms."

"Matt!"

Matthew sat on the bed, pulling on socks. "I like it when you call me that. Normally, I hate nicknames, but that one sounds nice, coming from you."

Isla crossed her arms. Matthew was watching her with a thoughtful expression, his blond hair falling into his eyes. He looked like an angel, she thought. The fallen sort that could lead good men straight to hell.

"You know what I mean about the bed," she said, "Matthew."

His expression sobered. "I'm not going to try anything, Isla. I promise."

She waited for Matthew to add unless you want me to, but Matthew just continued to calmly yank on his socks. Her frown deepened.

"I'm going to call down and ask for a cot," Isla said.

He paused. "You can't."

"Why not?"

Matthew arched an eyebrow. "How would it look if my girlfriend asked for a cot? If she didn't want to share a bed with me? If you want Walsh to think we're madly in love, angel, there can't be a cot."

Isla considered this. He had a point, damn him. She wandered towards the sidebar; it was filled with cheese, crackers, and three packets of strawberry-flavoured energy gel that presumably belonged to Matthew. She nibbled on a cracker.

It was only two nights, Isla reasoned. She thought of Lucas's face when she walked into Benedict's engagement party, of the way he watched her move around the room on Matthew's arm. He was jealous. Their plan was working.

She could share a bed with Matthew Carr if it meant winning Lucas back.

"I sleep on the left side," Isla said. "Just so you know."

"Good." Matthew's mouth quirked. "I sleep on the right."

"And I keep the room cold. Like, freezing."

"So do I."

"And I want churros," she said.

Matthew's smile grew. "Is that part of the bedding arrangement?"

"No. I just thought I'd mention it."

"Okay." He stood. "Let's go, then."

There was a knock on the door.

"Carr?" a male voice called. "Are you in there?"

Matthew hesitated.

Isla looked at Matthew. He shrugged, as if to say, I'm as lost as you are. She nibbled on another cracker as he yanked it open, revealing two young men. One looked like an Italian cherub with very flushed cheeks. The other boy wore a baseball cap and looked like he could happily ruin your life.

"Grazie a Dio!" the Italian said. "Took you long enough. Look, we're heading out for some dinner. Rooftop bar next door. Do you want to—? Oh." He took in Isla, his eyebrows rising. "Hullo."

"Bloody hell, Carr." The other boy smirked. "Are there any more beautiful women hiding in your room? I'd be happy to take one off your hands."

"Just me, I'm afraid." She held out a hand. "Isla Morris."

Baseball Cap paused. "Walsh's Isla?"

"Not anymore," Matthew said shortly. "Please pay no attention to this animal, Isla. He hasn't been housebroken yet."

Baseball Cap didn't look remotely offended. "I'm Noah. Noah Wood." He smiled, revealing dimples. "Future world champion."

Noah said "future" like "fee-you-cha." The Australian driver, Isla realized; he raced for Mercedes. He was also the only Aussie on the grid. The Italian crossed to the sideboard, popping a piece of cheese into his mouth.

"And I'm Cedro," he said. "Cedro Fontana."

"I know." Isla smiled. "You did well in Australia."

"You were there?" Noah demanded. "In Melbourne?" When Isla nodded, he let out a low whistle. "Fucking hell. Walsh must have kept you well hidden." He winked. "I'd remember a face like yours."

Isla prickled. The familiar desire to defend Lucas was still there, even now. "Lucas didn't exactly..." She hesitated. "I mean, he's not very social. He likes to focus on the upcoming race. I'm sure you can relate."

All three boys exchanged looks.

"Well," Noah said, breaking the terse silence, "I don't know about all of you, but I could go for some paella." He snapped his fingers at Cedro. "Ready, Fontana? Carr?"

"Sorry, boys," Matthew said. "We have a date with fried dough and chocolate tonight." He shoved his feet into loafers. "I'm afraid we'll have to pass."

"Dai!" Cedro protested. "But it's our first night in Barcelona. You have to come."

Matthew winked. "And speak to you losers all night? I'd probably throw myself off the roof by the end of it."

Cedro rolled his eyes. They were close, these three boys, Isla realized with some surprise; she'd assumed that all Formula 1 drivers disliked each other on principle — Lucas had always avoided socializing with his competitors — but Matthew seemed to genuinely like Noah and Cedro. She watched as Matthew twisted Noah's baseball cap the other way, earning himself a hearty shove.

It was that playful shove that decided her.

"Actually," Isla said, "I could use a drink. And I do love a rooftop bar."

The boys whooped. Matthew arched an eyebrow.

"Really?" he asked.

"Really." Her voice was firm.

"Okay." Matthew shrugged. "You heard the lady. Lead the way, boys."