Page 43 of The Hollywood Switch-up

The waves rocked them gently, pulling them closer with each swell. Her hands were still on his chest. She hadn’t pushed him away.

He leaned in slowly. His gaze dropped to her mouth, salt-kissed, slightly parted. Her breath caught. He heard it. Her eyes closed. He wanted to taste her.

His forehead touched hers. Her heartbeat thrummed against him. What are you doing, Cruz? She’s just an influencer, Cruz.

He pulled back. Water rushed between them, and the absence of her warmth was sudden, jarring.

Something didn’t add up. He couldn’t name it—didn’t want to—but it was there. A wrongness. Or maybe a rightness that made even less sense.

But then she looked at him—vulnerable, unguarded—and the questions dissolved into static.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said. “Not even close.”

She went still. “Is that a good thing?”

He didn’t answer. Wasn’t sure he could.

He forced himself to step away. Not because of the truce. Not because she was supposed to be his enemy. But because the woman in front of him had no idea he’d just figured out her secret—and he needed time to decide what to do about it.

“We should—” He stopped. Tried again. “Martin will send a search party.”

“Can’t have that.” Her eyes were still on his. But she didn’t move. Neither did he.

The sun had set by the time he drove the golf cart back to her villa. The path was dark, headlights cutting weak beams through the humidity. She sat close enough that her shoulder brushed his with every turn. He kept his eyes on the road. Mostly.

He stopped at her door. The engine idled. Neither of them reached for the handle.

She climbed out, then hesitated. “Today was . . .”

“A disaster?”

“I was going to say unexpected.” A small smile. “But sure. Disaster works.”

“Morgan.” She turned. “You did good out there.”

Her expression shifted. Softened. For a moment, he thought she might say something else. Instead, she held his gaze a beat too long, then slipped inside.

He sat there longer than he should have. The night settled around him. Waves, wind, the faint hum of the resort in the distance. He exhaled. Reached for the ignition.

Twin beams of light sliced through the darkness as Martin’s golf cart skidded to a halt, blocking his path.

“Quite the detour, Cruz.” Martin left his headlights on, casting Stefan in their glare. “Studio called. Wanted to know why we’re burning fifty grand an hour, falling behind schedule.”

Stefan turned off his engine. “She needed air.”

“What she needs is to remember she’s replaceable.” Martin stepped forward. “And what you need is to remember who made you.”

Stefan unfolded from his seat, using every inch of his height. “You will never speak to her like that again.” Each word landed deliberately. “You will treat her with respect.”

Martin laughed—a dry rattle. “Or what?”

“Or I make one call.” Stefan moved into his space, forcing Martin to lean back. “And we both know whose career ends first.”

The color drained from Martin’s face.

ERIKA

Of all the ways Erika had imagined blowing her cover, death by jet ski hadn’t made the list.