Page 35 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“You don’t have to think. That’s what Olivia’s for.” Anneliese’s voice hardened. “This is how the game works, Eri. Stefan knows it. Now you need to learn it too.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Erika said, which wasn’t a yes but wasn’t a no either.

“Tonight,” Anneliese pressed. “Promise me.”

“I have to go, Annie. Wardrobe is going to have my head if I’m late for the pre-dawn call.” Erika stared at the sunset bleeding orange across the water. The guilt of lying to the one person who knew her best sat in her throat.

She changed course. “How’s the leg?”

“Healing,” Anneliese said, clipped, the sharpness in her voice a clear sign she wasn’t fooled by the subject change. “So. How was set?”

Erika’s throat tightened. “I blanked. Completely froze in the middle of a scene. And Martin—” She swallowed hard. “He tore me apart. In front of everyone.”

Silence. Then, “That absolute bastard.” Anneliese’s voice sharpened. “I told Olivia he was unstable. I told her this would happen.”

“It’s over now. I got through it.”

“Got through it how? What did you do?”

“I just . . . kept going. Finished the scene.” Erika picked at a loose thread until it unraveled. “Stefan helped. A little.”

“Stefan.” The name landed cold. “Be careful with that one, Bean. He’s not your friend.”

Erika pressed her forehead against the window. On the horizon, the sun melted into the ocean.

“I should go,” she said. “Early call tomorrow.”

“Wait.” Anneliese’s voice dropped. “You’re not going to bail on me, right? I know it’s hard. I know Martin’s a nightmare. But you promised.”

The glass fogged beneath her breath. “I’m not quitting.”

“Good girl.” The brightness snapped back. “Now get some sleep. And moisturize—the salt air is murder on pores.”

Erika hung up the phone. The first tear slid hot down her cheek, then another, until her shoulders shook. No one to hear. No one who’d care.

A knock—three precise taps—cut through her misery. She froze, heart slamming. Please not Martin. She swiped at her face with the heel of her hand. She crossed to the door and pressed one eye to the peephole.

The fish-eye lens distorted his features, but there was no mistaking that jawline, those shoulders.

Stefan Cruz stood on her doorstep, his hair damp and curling at the edges, one hand braced against the doorframe. In his other hand, a white container tilted precariously, steam escaping from beneath the lid.

He’s the enemy, she reminded herself. But her hand was already reaching for the door handle.

STEFAN

Stefan’s knuckles hovered an inch from the door. Qué coño estás haciendo, Cruz? Three precise taps, then silence. His palm went clammy around the warm container of his tita’s sopa de lima, the same soup she’d made whenever he’d fallen ill or had his heart broken as a boy. The lock clicked. Her face appeared in the crack—eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Arms wrapped tight around herself.

Mierda. He’d watched Martin tear into her on set. Stood there like a coward while she crumbled. Told himself it wasn’t his fight.

The door opened a few more inches, the chain still fastened. She stood in the gap, hair damp at the temples, face scrubbed clean. The sunset caught a constellation of freckles across her nose. Funny. He didn’t remember those from any photo shoot.

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.” Her voice was hoarse.

“Not selling anything.” He lifted the container, steam curling into the night air. “Sopa de lima. My Tita’s recipe. Figured you’d skip dinner and spiral instead.”

She almost smiled. Almost. “You tracked me down to deliver soup.”

“I tracked you down because you walked off set three hours ago looking like you wanted to disappear, and no one’s seen you since.” He kept his voice even. “The soup is just my cover story.”