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After being dumped, Isla Morris makes a pact with her ex's biggest competition, F1 driver Matthew Carr, to get inside Lucas's head.
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Isla Morris is dating the world's best F1 racer - at least, she w...
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This, Isla thought, was the sort of text message that ruined your day.
There were small things that did that sort of thing. Gum on your shoe. Spilling coffee on your laptop. And this text message from Lucas Walsh, blinking up at her, an unwelcome intruder in the sanctuary of her flat.
Isla — any chance we could meet up? Not trying it on with you, I swear, just got some things on my mind. L x
Isla set down the phone, pushing open the balcony door. September air rushed into the flat, carrying the scent of silt and sweet autumn flowers and London. A candy-coloured bus rushed by, followed by the sound of an angry car horn. Isla picked up her phone.
No offense, Isla wrote, but I'd rather have a chat with Hannibal Lecter. I...
She stopped typing. Deleted it. Tried again.
Not sure that's a good idea. Matthew wouldn't...
Isla hit the backspace key, her heart racing. For god's sake. She shouldn't entertain Lucas's bullshit — logically, she knew that — but she couldn't bring herself to send a refusal. Not when some part of her felt...
Curious?
Sorry for him?
Isla turned back to the phone.
Okay, she wrote. But this is a friendly thing. Emphasis on friendly.
She sent it. Her phone chimed immediately.
I'm free now — I could come to yours?
Isla considered this. She wasn't scheduled to work until tomorrow, and Tiff was at her sister's baby shower until late. And Matthew was in Italy. Isla's stomach twisted as she thought of Matthew — Matt, who had defended her on the boat all those months ago, who wasn't nearly as callous as he pretended to be — but she shoved it aside.
She'd explain when they saw each other.
He'd understand.
Fine, Isla wrote. Door's open. Let yourself in.
Isla sat primly on the couch. Opened a magazine. Scanned an article on some blonde celebrity and her new skin range. She was just getting to the part about goat dung extract being great for your pores when the door opened.
"Hi," Lucas said.
He was dressed in a smart black jacket and leather brogues, and his dark hair was neatly combed. Isla thought of Matthew — all wild blond hair and a wilder smile — and felt a pang of longing. She set down the magazine.
"Hi," she said.
Lucas nodded at the kitchen. "You repainted your walls."
"We did." After their Italy holiday, she and Tiff had gotten lashed on White Russians, ordered paint on Amazon Prime, and smeared the wall with a "Sicilian Lemon" colour. It was hideous, and they adored it. "You look well."
