Page 45 of The Hollywood Switch-up

They circled the buoys, the gap closing with every hairpin turn. The finish line was a floating dock in the distance. Erika dug in, willing her machine to go a little faster.

“Last chance to back off,” she shouted over the spray and the wind.

Stefan’s reply came low. “Not a chance, Princesa.”

A sickening metallic rattle shuddered through the engine. The jet ski coughed, stuttered, and all at once the power drained away. The engine died, and then she was adrift, the hull rocking on the water.

She tried the starter but the only response was a feeble click and the acrid smell of burnt metal. Stefan was already a hundred yards ahead, surging toward the finish line, oblivious.

“Martin, my jet ski died!” she yelled into her earpiece. “It’s not working!”

Martin’s furious voice crackled back. “Goddammit, Morgan! The rescue boat’s across the bay. Stay put.” The comm clicked off.

Stay put. As if she had anywhere else to go.

Another engine approached—Stefan’s jet ski slowed, water churning white around its hull as he pulled alongside her.

“You hurt?” he called over the waves.

“No. It died,” she said, knuckles white on the handlebars.

Stefan glanced back at the camera boats—specks on the horizon—then tapped his dead comm. “Current’s strong. We need to double up.” He extended his hand, palm up. “Come over to mine.”

Her gaze dropped to the gap between their watercraft. “That’s at least three feet.”

“I’ve made worse jumps.” His palm stayed steady. “Trust me, Morgan.”

“Famous last words.”

Hesitantly, she reached out. His palm swallowed hers. She swung her leg over, but a wave slammed the jet skis together. She pitched forward. His arm locked around her waist, steadying her against his chest. Salt water dripped from her hair onto his forearm. The thin wetsuit did nothing to mask the heat of his body against hers.

“Look at the horizon,” he said, lips close enough to her ear. “Pick a point and hold it.”

“I’m breathing.”

“You’re not.”

He settled her in front of him, reaching around to grip the handlebars. Each breath he took expanded his chest against her shoulder blades. He cleared his throat. “Hold on.” His thumb pressed the throttle. The engine coughed once, twice, then died with a hollow click.

“Joder.” He tried again. Nothing.

Erika scanned the horizon. Empty water in every direction. The sun hung lower now, painting the waves in amber and rose. No boats. No land. Just two dead jet skis bobbing in the current.

“Please tell me you have a backup plan.”

“Working on it,” Stefan said.

She couldn’t form words. He breathed against her back, slow and unsteady. His forearms brushed her ribs with every inhale. Salt and sunscreen filled her nostrils—and underneath, the sandalwood that was now familiar.

Another wave rocked them. Her hips shifted back, pressing against something unmistakably, undeniably him.

Oh, God. Her face burned. The panic of being stranded evaporated, replaced by a far more intimate crisis. She fixed her gaze on the horizon, acutely aware of how alone they were, how his breath had gone shallow, how she was suddenly aware of every inch of skin.

She tried to shift forward, create space. The movement only made things worse. His breath caught, a small, strangled sound that hit her low and slow.

“Sorry—I didn’t⁠—”

“Dios.” The word was strangled. “Just—don’t move for a second.”