Page 30 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Then she felt it.

As they lay there, breathless, her hips pressed against his, everything narrowed to a single point of contact—hard, unmistakable—against her inner thigh. Her lungs seized. Blood rushed to her face, dizzying.

Stefan’s eyes darkened as he watched understanding dawn across her features. That infuriating smirk spread slowly across his lips. He didn’t move away. Instead, he lowered his head until his mouth brushed the shell of her ear.

“If you wanted me on top of you,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear, “you just had to ask. Though I have to say . . . you’re full of surprises, Morgan.”

The words landed strangely. Her gaze dropped to his mouth before she could stop it.

His breath fanned across her lips. Neither of them moved. Neither of them pulled away. The moment stretched, taut as a wire about to snap. What the hell almost just happened?

STEFAN

The world collapsed to a single point of contact—her body beneath his, her breath fast. Salt and coconut filled his nostrils with each breath. The blush crawled down her neck, nothing like Anneliese’s camera-ready flush. Real. Raw. This was Anneliese Morgan. The woman who’d thrown champagne in his face. The woman he was supposed to hate. So why did everything in him want to stay exactly where he was? Her gaze dropped to his mouth—he caught that—and he wanted her. Estás jodido, Cruz.

His lips grazed the shell of her ear. “If you wanted me on top of you,” he murmured, “you just had to ask.”

A tremor rippled through her body. He pulled back just enough to see her face. “Though I have to say . . . you’re full of surprises, Morgan.”

“Get. Off. Me. Cruz.” Each word escaped through her teeth, but her body arched almost imperceptibly against his.

He watched her pupils dilate behind those artificial blue contacts. His thumb traced the inside of her wrist where her heartbeat raced. Something’s off. He filed the thought away.

“Almost convincing,” he said, his lips close enough that his breath stirred the damp hair at her temple. “But this—” he pressed his thumb harder against her pulse “—tells me everything.”

She jerked her wrist away, teeth flashing. “Five seconds, Cruz. That’s how long you have before I flip you on your ass for real.”

His laugh was low, genuine. “I’d like to see you try, corazón.”

“What was that?”

Joder. The voice cut through the air. Stefan’s body tensed, instinct taking over. He rolled off her in one fluid motion, creating distance between them a heartbeat before Martin Blackwell appeared at the edge of the mat.

Martin’s gaze cut past Stefan to Erika. “That was garbage. You know what I see? Another pretty face who thinks showing up is the same as showing talent. I can find a hundred of you at any open call in LA.”

Stefan went still. ¿Qué diablos estás haciendo, Cruz? He rose smoothly as his hand found hers—warm, trembling slightly—and pulled her upright. Without breaking eye contact with Martin, he shifted his weight, angling his shoulder between them.

Martin’s nostrils flared. “How touching.” His lips curled into something too sharp to be a smile. “Save the heroics for the camera, Cruz.” He leaned around Stefan, voice dropping. “One more performance like that and I’m calling the studio. I’m sure they’d love to hear how their leading lady can’t handle basic choreography.” His smile thinned. “Get it together, Morgan. Or I will get it together for you.”

Behind him, Erika’s breath hitched—a sound so small only Stefan caught it. Ni de coña, cabrón.

“Actually, Martin,” Stefan said, stepping between them, “you might want to rethink that call. Replacing your female lead two days into production? After Bradley already bailed?” He let silence hang between them. “The studio’s already nervous. You really want to explain why you can’t keep talent on set?”

Martin’s face went red. “I don’t need casting advice from a has-been who couldn’t open a door, much less a film.”

Stefan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “And I don’t need direction from a man one harassment claim away from permanent indie obscurity.” He leaned in, close enough that only Martin could hear his next words. “We both know what happened on Midnight Run.” Stasia’s face flashed through his mind—mascara streaked, hands shaking. “Do you really want me making calls tonight?”

Martin’s jaw slackened. His eyes darted left, right. The color drained from his face before flooding back crimson.

“This isn’t over,” he hissed. He jabbed a finger that stopped inches from Stefan’s chest, then spun away.

Stefan’s shoulders stayed rigid, arms locked at his sides long after Martin disappeared. Felicidades, Cruz. When he finally turned, he forced himself to breathe.

“You’re shaking,” he said, reaching toward her before stopping himself.

Erika hugged her elbows, nails digging half-moons into her skin. “I had him handled.”

“Of course you did.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s why you’re the color of chalk and breathing like you’ve run a marathon.”