Page 46 of The Hollywood Switch-up

She didn’t move. But God help her, part of her wanted to. Wanted to turn around and find out what would happen if she stopped pretending this was only proximity and adrenaline.

Great. Stranded in the ocean with a malfunctioning jet ski and a functioning erection. This day just keeps giving.

The swell shifted them closer. Her pulse hammered everywhere. Throat. Ears. Between her legs.

“We should—” Stefan’s voice cracked. “We should signal for help.”

“Already radioed Martin.” She forced a cough to disguise how her voice had climbed an octave. “Boat’s across the bay.”

“Fucking Martin.” The curse vibrated through him and into her spine.

He tried to move away. It only pressed his thighs more firmly against hers. His laugh vibrated through her, low.

“Sorry,” he said, lips near her ear, his breath stirring her hair. “Biology’s a bitch.”

The words unstuck her throat. “For someone with a garage full of Lamborghinis, you have shit luck with engines.”

His surprised laugh jolted her against him. “Touché. Maybe you’re my mechanical kryptonite.”

“So this is my fault?” She twisted to face him, their noses inches apart. “I’m not the one whose million-dollar prop just died in the middle of nowhere.”

“It was purring like a kitten until you climbed aboard.” His eyes caught the setting sun, turning them to amber. “You short-circuit things, Morgan.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Machinery included.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“Hey.” The word vibrated through him and into her spine. “Look at me.”

She pivoted slowly. His face eclipsed the horizon, close enough that his breath warmed her lips. Gold flecks held the last light in his irises. Her gaze dropped to his mouth—for the space of a heartbeat—before snapping back up.

“The rescue boat will come,” he said quietly.

“When?” she whispered. “The sun’s almost down.”

He lifted a hand and brushed a salt-crusted strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered. His thumb traced her jawline before he pulled back.

She turned away, face flushed.

A beam of light sliced through the darkness. She jerked upright, arm raised mid-wave before the boat veered away, its wake spreading silver across the black water. A chill crept across her skin as the light faded.

He unclipped his life jacket and settled it across her shoulders. The fabric smelled of sandalwood and salt, still warm from his body. His thumbs brushed the hollow beneath her collarbones as he adjusted the clasp.

“Stefan, you need⁠—”

“I need you to stop arguing.”

But the tears started anyway, hot and frustrated. “What does it matter? The studio’s going to pull the budget, and shut down this film by next week. And it’ll be my fault.”

His jaw tightened. “Martin went after you yesterday in front of everyone. I saw your face when he called you replaceable.

She dropped her gaze. “Hey.” His voice was soft. “Stay with me.”

She turned back. His thumb brushed away a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen.

“Did he threaten you?”

“He didn’t have to.” The jet ski rocked beneath them. “He showed me the dailies. Said my performance was ‘concerning the investors.’ Mentioned how many actresses would kill for this role.” Her words caught. “The studio needs a scapegoat. Martin’s making sure it’s me.”

“That’s bullshit. Your dailies were solid.” His fingers tightened on her shoulder. “Martin’s playing mind games. He did the same thing to Eliza Chen on Blackwater.”