Page 36 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Her chin lifted. For a moment, he thought she'd close the door in his face.

Then her stomach growled—loud enough that they both heard it.

The chain slid free.

She stepped back to let him in, but her eyes darted past him first, scanning the path. “If a single crew member spots you at my door, we’ll be the next tabloid headline. You know that, right?”

“Took the long way. Through the kitchen garden, past the maintenance shed. Very undignified.” He stepped inside. “No one saw.”

The door clicked shut behind him. He found the kitchen, ladled the soup into a bowl. When he turned back, she was still standing in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself, watching him like she couldn’t quite figure out the angle.

He set the bowl on the counter. “I can leave this and go—pretend I was never here. Or—” He nodded toward the glass doors. “We sit outside, don’t talk about any of it, and you eat something before you pass out.”

She followed him out into the air, thick with salt and bougainvillea. The plunge pool rippled with silver light. They settled at its edge, feet dangling in the water.

She took the first spoonful. Her eyes watered instantly, her whole face opening as the heat hit.

“Jesus,” she gasped, reaching for water that wasn’t there. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“My Tita’s recipe.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “For when someone needs their soul shocked back into their body.”

She took another spoonful despite herself. “Is it working?”

Before he could stop himself⁠—

“First day I shot in Madrid,” he said, “I puked in a prop vase between takes. Seventeenth century. Museum piece.”

Her spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “A museum piece. You desecrated a museum piece.”

“The director found it fitting. Said my performance was equally valuable.”

A real laugh escaped her—startled, unguarded.

“Everyone pukes,” he said, softer now. “We just hide it better after a few years.” He glanced at her. “Your problem isn’t the acting—it’s that you’re trying too hard to hide what’s underneath. I could feel you vibrating with it today across the set.”

He held her gaze—just a searching, steady look. She jerked her eyes away, busying herself with the soup. There. That flinch.

“You know, I never set out to be Hollywood’s favorite bad boy. I wanted to design buildings. Places that outlast people.”

Her spoon stilled. “Architect Stefan Cruz.” She said it like she was testing the shape of it. “That’s . . . not what I expected.”

“Whole cities, maybe. When I was a kid, I’d stay up drawing floor plans instead of doing homework. Learning how things fit together. How to spot weak foundations.” His eyes found hers. “Guess I still do that.”

Something shifted in her expression. “Floor plans.” Her voice went strange. “I used to fill sketchbooks. Charcoal, mostly. Faces, hands, the way light hit things.” She caught herself. “Anyway. That was a long time ago.”

“Was it?”

“Keep going. You were about to tell me how you sold out.”

He let the deflection stand. For now. “Wasn’t good at it. Numbers, not my thing.” He shrugged. “But it was honest work. Something that mattered. Then a casting agent saw me at a friend’s birthday and offered a gig. Money was good. Rest is . . .” He gestured at everything—the villa, the moon, the absurdity.

“So you traded blueprints for blockbusters.” She wasn’t mocking—not quite. “Do you ever wonder who you’d be if you hadn’t?”

The question landed harder than it should have.

“Someone told me I had a face that could sell anything. Not much future in buildings when you grow up broke in small-town Spain.” His shoulders lifted, fell. “Acting was supposed to be a side hustle. Then it wasn’t. Then I liked it too much. The money, the way people looked at me.” He looked away.

“My sister used to say I—” She stopped, alarm flickering across her face. “She used to say she was like a canvas waiting for paint. That she could become anything, but hadn’t decided what yet.”