Page 26 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Laura. The trainer. Erika’s mouth was dry as reality crashed in. Day one of being Anneliese Morgan had officially begun.

She peeled herself from sheets so smooth they felt liquid against her skin. On the chaise lounge lay today’s workout gear—because apparently even sweating required couture: a scrap of neon fabric masquerading as a sports bra and leggings that might as well have been painted on. The real Anneliese would have slipped them on without a second thought. Erika stared at them like they might bite.

Her sneakers squeaked against the floor as she trudged toward the training area. She rounded the corner and froze. Laura was already there, her ponytail swinging as she laughed, one tanned hand resting on Stefan’s bicep. Her fingers lingered there, as she leaned in to murmur something that made him flash that magazine-cover smile.

Of course. Her shoulders went rigid. This was the man who’d destroyed her sister’s career, and here he was, charming the trainer like it was a reflex.

“Perfect form,” Laura said, circling him like a shark. “Let’s add five more pounds and really make those delts pop for the camera.”

Stefan Cruz stood with his back to her, shoulders flexing as he curled a weight that should have required a permit to lift. When he turned, sunlight caught the sheen across his collarbones. She squared her shoulders, channeling her sister’s swagger, and stepped into the gym.

“You are Anneliese Morgan,” she whispered to herself, tasting the lie. “You eat men like him for breakfast.”

“Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” Stefan drawled, letting the barbell drop with a metallic clang that made her flinch. “Didn’t think you’d show. Thought you’d be at the boutique trying on bikinis you’ll never wear in the water.”

Erika mounted the treadmill, her fingers hovering over the controls. She jabbed at the buttons, cranking the speed higher than she intended, forcing her legs to match its pace. Her calves burned in immediate protest.

“Some of us,” she said between controlled breaths, “don’t need to compensate with muscles.” She flicked her ponytail over one shoulder, the gesture pure Anneliese. “Though I suppose that’s all you have to offer.”

His laugh was low. He stepped closer, close enough that she caught the scent of sandalwood and gin, sweat-warmed. One hand braced against the treadmill frame, fingers inches from hers. “Careful. You might find out what else I have to offer.”

“Okay, beautiful people!” Laura clapped her hands. “Let’s start with some high-intensity vibrational sprints! Channel that A-list energy!”

Stefan cranked his treadmill to level nine. One eyebrow raised in silent challenge. The machine whirred beneath her fingers as she matched him level for level. Her lungs screamed protest as the humid air caught in her throat.

“Easy.” His breath came short. “Wouldn’t want you fainting on day one.”

“Save your concern.” She tasted salt on her upper lip. “I’d hate for you to strain something trying to keep up with me.”

His lips curled into something dangerous—not quite a smile. “Funny. I was about to say the same to you.”

When they slowed to catch their breath, he leaned across the gap between their machines.

“Getting tired already?” His voice dropped low enough that only she could hear.

“Just getting started,” she said, forcing her breath to steady. “Save your energy for someone who’s impressed. You’ll need it when I’m carrying this entire production on my back.”

His eyes darkened. Something too genuine to be called a smirk crossed his face. “We’ll see who carries who.”

The treadmills whirred louder as they both punched the speed higher. Nine point five. Ten. Ten point five. Erika’s lungs burned, but her legs kept churning. Laura paced beside them, shouting encouragement—all of it directed at Stefan. Erika’s chin came up. She jabbed the button again. Eleven. When she dared a sideways glance, she found Stefan already watching her, his expression shifting from surprise to something darker, more intent. Not looking through her like Anneliese’s rival, but at her—whoever she really was beneath the designer workout gear.

The thought should have terrified her. It didn’t.

“Hydration break!” Laura sang out. Erika’s finger stabbed the stop button. Her legs wobbled as she gripped the handrail, lungs heaving. Three feet away, Stefan patted his face with a towel, his breathing controlled, the muscles in his forearm rippling beneath a swirl of black ink—something intricate, almost architectural, with what looked like Spanish script woven through.

“See something you like?” The words vibrated low in her ear, too close, too knowing.

Her eyes snapped up to his, caught. His knowing half-smile did something to her.

“I wasn’t—” The lie died as his eyebrow arched. Her gaze dropped to the tattoo—dark lines stretching from wrist to elbow. The lines were precise, deliberate. “Your tattoo. I was looking at your tattoo.”

He closed the distance, one hand braced against the treadmill beside her hip, caging her in. “Mi tatuaje?” His voice fell to a register that seemed to bypass her ears and travel directly to her spine. “And what’s your professional opinion?”

She channeled her sister’s steel. “It’s . . . a lot.”

His laugh was dark and rich, a sound she felt rather than heard. “Vaya, vaya. Such devastating criticism.” He leaned in, the smell of salt and heat on his skin. “I designed it myself.”

He designed it himself. That didn’t fit the playboy narrative she’d built in her head.