Page 31 of The Hollywood Switch-up

She lifted her chin. “Next time, save the white knight routine for someone who wants it.”

He closed the distance between them, his attention falling to her hands where they trembled against her thighs. “Don’t you?” The question hung in the air, barely above a whisper. “A minute ago, your pulse was trying to escape through your wrist.”

Her jaw tightened. “You are an arrogant, infuriating—” The insult died on her tongue, unfinished.

“Probably.” One corner of his lips lifted, but his eyes remained serious. “But I’m also the only person on this godforsaken island who gives a damn whether Martin gets to you.” He stepped closer, close enough that his own sweat and salt hung between them. “He’ll come for you if he senses weakness. I’ve seen it before.”

His voice dropped, the playfulness evaporating. “Princesa.” The word came out softer than he intended. “Whatever you think of me, stay away from Martin. He⁠—”

“I don’t need your protection.” Her words came out brittle. He watched her square her shoulders—steel under all that designer cotton—and meet his gaze with defiance that hit him hard. When she turned on her heel, the rehearsal mat squeaked beneath her retreating form.

He watched her go. ¿Qué tiene esta mujer? Nothing about her added up.

Stefan pushed off the wall, cutting through the water in long, deliberate strokes. Movement had caught his eye. At the pool’s edge, he vaulted out, water streaming down his skin.

Anneliese’s eyes flickered to him—widened, then darted away—and heat stirred in his chest. Mírala. Acting like she didn’t just check you out. The sky was going pink and gold as he snatched a towel and crossed the distance between them.

When he drew up beside her lounger, his shadow fell across her face. “It must be exhausting,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

She looked up, the blue contacts failing to disguise the flicker of vulnerability beneath. Her fingers tightened around the script pages until the edges crumpled—grip white-knuckled, nails bitten short. Anneliese Morgan, nail-biter? He noted that too.

His gaze caught on the small heart-shaped birthmark behind her right ear. Huh. Twins probably matched down to stuff like that. Photos never caught the little things. He filed it away and didn't think about it again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The words came out without Anneliese’s trademark venom.

“Keeping up the act.” His voice fell. “The ice queen thing. It must be exhausting.”

“I don’t—” she started, then swallowed, her voice barely audible.

“Don’t you?” He tilted his head, studying her. “You know, I never got to ask—did you ever finish that tequila?”

Her brow furrowed. “What tequila?”

“The night of the Beau Monde party. You were holding court by the bar, that silver dress, telling everyone how you’d drink me under the table if I ever showed my face.” His lips curved. “I always wondered if you meant it.”

Something flickered across her face, quickly masked. “That was . . . a long time ago. I don’t remember every party.”

Mentirosa. There was no Beau Monde party. No silver dress. No challenge. He’d made the whole thing up—and the Anneliese he knew would have called him on it instantly.

He watched her throat work as she swallowed. He dragged his gaze back to her eyes.

“You know what’s strange?” He closed the distance until he could see the goosebumps rise on her arms. “I was expecting a drink in my face by now. Maybe a slap.” His mouth curved. “You just . . . blushed.”

“I—” She faltered, then squared her jaw. “I was caught off guard. It won’t happen again.”

But her voice came out soft. Almost uncertain. “You’re different than I expected, Morgan.” The words surprised him as much as her. “Softer, somehow.”

Her shoulder curved inward.

“Why do you care?” she asked. “You hate me.”

He looked away first. “Martin—he collects weaknesses,” Stefan said, voice low. “Like some men collect trophies. I’ve seen what happens when he decides someone is . . . expendable.”

She swallowed hard. “The way he looks at me. Like I’m not a person. Like I’m . . . raw material.”

Te está volviendo loco esta mujer.

“Never be alone with him,” he said, each word a stone dropping into still water. “Not for rehearsals. Not for notes. Not in his villa. Not anywhere.” His voice scraped lower. “Promise me.”