Page 22 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“It’s lovely to be here.” She reached for the signature Anneliese tuck—her fingers tangled in the unfamiliar strands, leaving her pawing at her own head like she was swatting invisible mosquitoes.

Olivia slid between Erika and the crew member with the smooth ease of someone who’d spent years deflecting paparazzi. “You’ll have to excuse Miss Morgan,” she said, flashing a smile that revealed exactly thirty-two perfect teeth. “The turbulence was brutal.”

The crew member’s gaze lingered on Erika’s face a beat too long before he nodded. “Of course.” He gestured toward a waiting golf cart. “Mr. Blackwell wanted to welcome you personally, but he’s tied up with the DP. He did insist on the oceanfront villa, though.”

“Martin’s always so considerate when he wants something,” Olivia said as they settled into the cart’s leather seats. She leaned close. “I’ll sweep the villa for bugs, digital and otherwise, then smooth things over with Martin before my flight.”

“Flight?” The word stuck in Erika’s throat. “You’re leaving now?” Her voice cracked.

“I have to.” Olivia checked her watch. “The vultures are circling in LA, and Ariel Waves is having another meltdown—something about her label wanting to ‘rebrand her image.’” She softened. “Lily knows everything. She’s got your back.” Her hand briefly squeezed Erika’s shoulder. “Remember, you’re Anneliese Morgan now.”

The attendant pulled up to a villa that looked like it had been plucked from a travel magazine—all gleaming wood and floor-to-ceiling windows that reflected a sky so blue it hurt to look at. “Someone will bring your luggage,” he said. “Costume fitting at three.”

“She’ll be there,” Olivia said, already swinging her legs out of the cart. She turned to Erika, voice dropping. “I need to handle some things with Martin before my flight. Are you good?”

Erika’s throat tightened. No. Absolutely not. Please don’t leave me here. “I’m fine,” she heard herself say.

Olivia studied her for a beat too long, then nodded. “Lily will be at the costume fitting. You won’t be alone.” She squeezed Erika’s shoulder—brief, businesslike—and climbed back into the cart.

The golf cart hummed away, leaving Erika clutching her sister’s designer handbag like a life preserver in open water.

Inside the villa, her sandals tapped across marble floors too pristine to walk on. White furniture gleamed under cathedral ceilings. She stumbled onto the terrace, gulping sea air, and froze. Through a gap in the bougainvillea, she could see into the neighboring villa’s open-air gym.

And then she saw him.

Stefan Cruz. Shirtless. Sunlight carved shadows along the planes of his back as he did a pull-up—shoulder blades shifting beneath his skin, the muscles of his arms coiling and releasing. A sheen of sweat traced the curve of his spine, disappearing into workout shorts that rode low on his hips.

Erika’s breath stopped.

He dropped from the bar and snatched a towel from a nearby bench. His chest rose and fell, abs flexing with each breath, and when he lifted the towel to his face, the muscles of his forearms rippled beneath a swirl of black ink.

A flush of heat crawled up her neck—nothing to do with the Bahamian sun.

No. Absolutely not. Her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting flesh.

His head turned—slow, deliberate—and he looked up at exactly the right moment. His lips curved into that infamous smirk, only sharper up close. He raised the towel in a mocking salute.

Her stomach flipped. Her feet stayed rooted.

She jerked back behind the terrace wall, breath short. Why is he here? Anneliese would have warned her.

Her phone buzzed—Anneliese, again—but what could she possibly say? The man who ruined your career is twenty feet away and I just stood there staring at his abs like an idiot?

She pressed her back against the warm stucco, willing her heartbeat to slow. Costume tent. Focus. But even as she repeated the words in her head, she knew without a doubt that nowhere on this island was far enough away from Stefan Cruz.

Erika stumbled into the costume tent, the arctic blast of air conditioning raising goosebumps along her sweat-slicked arms. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Anneliese! There you are!” A familiar voice cut through the chaos of rustling fabric and murmured conversations.

Lily Martinez emerged from behind a rack of sequined gowns, measuring tape slung around her neck. Her smile faltered as she registered Erika’s expression.

The tent flap snapped open behind them. Conversations died. Hangers stopped clinking.

Martin Blackwell stood silhouetted against the fierce Bahamian sun, his pastel linen shirt damp with sweat. The veins in his temples throbbed visibly.

“What the hell is happening in here?” Martin’s voice cut the silence.

His gaze locked onto Erika—small eyes narrowing, cold and assessing. She’d heard the stories—every actress in Hollywood had—but nothing prepared her for the way his eyes traveled from her face to her chest, lingering a beat too long.