Page 120 of The Hollywood Switch-up

One eye cracked open. “That’s not even a compliment. That’s what you say about someone’s work ethic.”

“Fine.” He kissed her forehead. “You’re devastatingly beautiful, and I’m completely in love with you, and I can’t stop looking at you. Better?”

She laughed—almost soundless, her shoulders shaking against him—and then the laugh caught on something, just for a second, a hitch in her breath that she smoothed over so fast he almost missed it. Almost.

“Acceptable.” Her eyes closed again. “Wake me if anything interesting happens.”

“You just happened.”

“Then let me sleep.”

He smiled into her hair. The quiet stretched between them, warm and fragile, and Stefan lay in it and tried not to think about the voice in his head that said this was temporary, tried to let the weight of her against him be enough, and couldn’t.

“I’ve been thinking about quitting.”

She tensed. He felt it everywhere—her shoulder under his hand, her ribs against his side, the leg thrown over his hip going rigid.

“Not tomorrow. But after this film—maybe after one more. I left Cudillero when I was nineteen to prove that my father’s life wasn’t wasted, and I’ve been running on that for fifteen years, and I don’t even know if I’m still doing it for him or just because I forgot how to stop.” He was quiet for a moment. “I keep thinking about what it would feel like to just—stop. Wake up somewhere quiet. Cook. Read scripts because I want to, not because my agent’s calling.”

“You love acting.”

“I love the craft. I’m tired of the industry.” His thumb traced her shoulder blade. “Tired of men like Martin deciding who gets to make art and who gets destroyed for trying.”

Silence. The yacht creaked. Waves lapped against the hull.

“Can we not?” Her voice came out smaller than he’d ever heard it. “Can we just have this? Tonight? Without the after?”

“Yeah.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “Of course.”

She relaxed against him—gradually, like she’d been bracing for a blow that didn’t come. She was safe here. She was with him.

So why did it feel like he was running out of time?

His arm tightened around her before he could stop it—pulling her closer, holding on—and she stirred against him.

“Stefan?” Barely awake. Her hand slid up to his heart, searching. Making sure he was real.

“Aquí.” He caught her fingers, pressed them to his heartbeat.

“Promise?”

The word landed somewhere soft and bruised. She’d never asked him to promise anything before.

“Promise,” he said. And meant it. And knew, even as he said it, that some promises were easier to make in the dark.

She settled against him, her grip on his hand loosening as sleep took her.

Outside, dawn crept across the horizon, bleeding the stars to gray. Stefan lay awake in the gathering light, holding her, trying not to count the hours until he’d have to let her go.

ERIKA

Erika woke to sunlight on her face and Stefan’s arm around her waist and the slow rock of the yacht beneath them, and for three full seconds she didn’t remember any of it—not Martin, not the switch, not the lie she was carrying—just warmth and salt air and his heartbeat against her shoulder blade.

Then it came back. All of it. And she held still and breathed and decided: today. She would tell him today. He’d said te amo with her face in his hands and he’d meant it, and she owed him the truth, and maybe he’d hear it and stay.

He was showing her the reef line from the deck, coffee in one hand, the other resting on her thigh like it belonged there, and the water was a blue she’d have to invent a new pigment for, and his shirt from last night hung over a chair, and she thought about how to say it. Stefan, Martin knows about the switch. He’s been using it to control me. She rehearsed it in her head while he talked about coral formations and it sounded simple and impossible and terrifying.

After snorkeling. She’d tell him after snorkeling.