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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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Matthew Carr was exceptional at drawing.
Everyone knew it. His primary school teacher, Ms. Frishwater, had praised his crayon drawing of an aquatic zebra. "Very inventive," she'd said, shaking her head. "And wonderful shading, Matthew." At eight-years-old, Matthew had taken the drawing, run home, and proudly presented it to his parents.
The only problem?
His older brother, Benedict, was better at drawing.
Benedict was better at a lot of things. Climbing trees. Playing football. Singing the national anthem backwards. Their parents had hung Benedict's watercolour of an Italian sunset on the fridge, crowding out Matthew's poor zebra. So Matthew had announced that he wanted to enter a karting competition.
"Karting?" His father had looked alarmed. "Good heavens, Matt, you can't even knot your shoelaces properly. How on earth are you meant to drive a kart?"
But Matthew had begged, and his parents had given in.
Matthew won that karting competition. And the next. And the one after that. Finally, Matthew had been the best at something.
Then he'd met Lucas Walsh.
Lucas Walsh was better at karting. Even as children, Lucas had the instinct for it, the kind of lazy arrogance that came with being naturally great at everything. But Matthew trained harder. Took more risks. Pushed himself until his muscles ached, until he dreamt of flying around the track in a race car, his feet working the pedals.
After all, Matthew had thought, wincing as he rubbed at his aching arms, a sharpened stick is worth more than a dull sword.
Matthew truly believed that. Persistence triumphed over talent. Hard work and dedication would win out in the end.
At least, Matthew had believed it until today.
"What," Matthew growled, "the actual fuck was that?"
Alek took a sip of his champagne. The Ferrari Team Manager looked perturbed, but not by Matthew's outburst. Matthew was always having outbursts. No, Alek was frowning at a champagne bottle, his blond eyebrows furrowed.
"Baby Duck," Alek sighed, examining the label. "Did you know Baby Duck even made champagne?"
Matthew crossed his arms. "You have two minutes. Explain."
"They could have gone with Moet," Alek added, ignoring him. "Moet is lovely." He swirled the champagne. "Remind me to fire whoever went with Baby Duck."
Matthew waited, refusing to back down. Alek stood tall. Or maybe he just was tall, Matthew thought wryly; Alek looked a lot like a terrifying Norwegian god, the type that deserved a movie poster with lots of flames in the background. Still. Matthew refused to be intimidated by Alek's height. At 6'2, Matthew wasn't exactly a garden gnome himself.
