Page 32 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Understanding dawned across her face. She nodded once—small, genuine—and the grip in his chest released. Then she was gathering her script, fingers unsteady against the pages.

“I should go,” she said, already half-turned away.

His fingers found her wrist before he could think better of it. The contact sparked between them—her skin warm despite the evening chill, pulse jumping against his thumb.

“You know why I took this job?” He stared at the darkening horizon. “One more flop and I’m done. Not ‘taking a break’ done. Done done. The kind where your agent stops returning calls and your face becomes a punchline on late-night TV.” His lips twisted, self-deprecating. “So believe me when I say—I’m not protecting you out of the goodness of my heart. I need this film to work. And I need you . . .” He let his gaze travel over her face, lingering. “. . . functional.”

The word landed like a dare. Mentira. She stared at the horizon, saying nothing.

“Functional.” She let out a breath that might have been a laugh. “That’s what you’re going with.”

“Take it or leave it, Princesa.”

She looked at him—unguarded for a heartbeat, then shuttered. “I should go.” She straightened, the wall going back up. “Try not to drown yourself, Cruz.”

Stefan watched her retreat. He ran a hand through his hair.

There’s something about you, Morgan. Nothing about her matched the woman he thought he knew. She was undoing him.

ERIKA

Erika white-knuckled her script as the golf cart bounced along the path. She hadn’t even made it to set yet, and she was already a wreck.

She tried to focus on the dialogue block in front of her—but the lines blurred with each lurch of the cart.

“Hang on!” the driver barked, swerving to avoid a lighting tech crouched over a tangle of extension cords. The cart’s back wheel clipped the man’s duffel bag, scattering gaffer tape and Advil into the dirt. Erika winced.

Her stomach lurched—not from the ride.

She couldn’t stop seeing it.

Dawn. The beach empty except for the waves. She’d been walking off her insomnia when she rounded a cluster of palms and froze.

Stefan, waist-deep in the surf. Rising.

Water streamed down his chest, caught the pink light, carved shadows along muscle. The kind of body she would have itched to sketch once, back when she still let herself want things. He waded toward shore, oblivious, and she stood rooted to the sand like an idiot.

Then he turned. All the way.

Uncut. And . . . God.

She’d ducked behind the nearest tree so fast she scraped her elbow on the bark, ears ringing. Pressed her back against the trunk, not breathing, certain he must have seen her. When she finally risked another look, he was walking up the beach, towel slung low on his hips.

Hours later, her skin still prickled. Her hands wouldn’t stay still. And pretending to hate him was getting harder by the hour.

Anneliese would never forgive her. She wasn’t sure she’d forgive herself.

“Costume department, Miss Morgan,” the driver announced, jolting her back to reality as they skidded to a stop before a massive white tent.

“There you are!” Lily’s voice cut through the din as she wove between costume racks. Her smile vanished when she reached Erika. “Jesus. You look like death in couture.” She pressed a cool palm to Erika’s forehead. “Scale of one to ten—how close are we to losing your breakfast?”

“Six. Maybe seven.”

“Then we’re not moving until you’re a four.” Lily gripped her elbow, steering her behind a partition of hanging gowns. “Breathe. What happened?”

Erika shook her head. The image of Stefan’s naked body flashed behind her eyelids, and the word escaped before she could stop it. “Stefan,” she whispered.

“What about him?” Lily’s hands stilled on the fabric. Something in Erika’s face must have given her away. “Oh no. What happened?”