Page 49 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” Lena said, eyes darting toward Stefan’s villa. “I was just coming to drop off some call sheet updates, but—” She bit her lip. “My niece follows all your socials, and I know this is so unprofessional, but could I possibly get your autograph? For her?”

Erika’s heart was hammering, but she forced herself to smile. Anneliese would never refuse a fan.

“Of course! What’s her name?”

“Chloe,” Lena breathed.

Erika took the notebook, her signature transforming into Anneliese’s looping scrawl. To Chloe—stay sparkly! She added the trademark heart over the ‘I’ and handed it back.

“Thank you so much.” Lena clutched the notebook, then glanced in that direction. “Are you . . . heading somewhere?”

“Just getting some air.” The lie came out smooth. Too smooth. She was getting better at this. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

Lena nodded, something flickering behind her eyes. “Have a good morning, Miss Morgan.”

Erika waited until she disappeared around the corner before exhaling.

The path wound through the hibiscus and palm. Each step felt like the walk to a gallery critique she already knew would be brutal. What was she going to say? Hey, so you used my real name last night—care to explain? Or maybe: Before we kiss on camera tomorrow, we should probably discuss the fact that you know I’m committing fraud.

Her sandals crunched on the gravel.

His villa materialized through the foliage—white stucco, blue shutters, a terrace identical to hers. The door was ajar, as if he’d been expecting her.

She stopped at the threshold. Her hand rose to knock.

This is a terrible idea.

The door swung open. Stefan stood in the doorframe, barefoot, coffee cup in hand. He’d thrown on a linen shirt, but hadn’t bothered with the buttons, it hung open, revealing a chest she was trying not to stare at. Stubble shadowed his jaw, and the dark smudges under his eyes made him look like a Baroque saint after a rough night of martyrdom.

Her gaze dropped before she could stop it. The cut of his abs. The trail of dark hair. The low waistband of his pants.

Eyes up.

When she met his gaze, his mouth curved—just barely. He’d noticed.

“There she is,” he said. His voice was rough, sleep-deprived. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten me.”

Her mouth went dry. “Stefan⁠—”

He stepped aside to let her in. The doorway was narrow—or maybe he didn’t move back far enough. She had to brush past him, her shoulder grazing his bare chest. Coffee, soap, and underneath it all, skin—warm and dangerously familiar.

Behind her, the door clicked shut like a decision being made.

STEFAN

The door clicked shut behind her.

He’d been pacing since dawn, barefoot on the cool marble. The rescue boat kept replaying in his head—her body going rigid, her name in his mouth, the crew close enough to hear. Idiota. He’d given Martin everything he needed and still—the way she’d felt pressed against him in the water.

Now Erika stood in his living room, summoned by his guilt. Bare-faced, hair escaping its ponytail in corkscrews that caught the morning light. She’d changed—yoga pants, an oversized sweatshirt that swallowed her hands—but the dark circles under her eyes matched his own and the high color in her cheeks said she was ready to tear him apart.

“We need to talk,” she’d said at the door, and he’d stepped aside without a word. What else could he do—pretend the last twenty-four hours hadn’t happened? His body was still humming with that memory—her fingers digging into his shoulders like he was the only solid thing left. Or maybe that was just what he wanted to believe.

The villa felt smaller with her in it. Warmer. She stood with her arms crossed, chin lifted, that stubborn line in her jaw. Her gaze swept the room—pausing at his Tita’s photo, the cold coffee he’d forgotten to drink.

Basta, idiota. He was in trouble, real trouble, and she was here to make sure he knew it.

This one saw too much. Had since that first week on set. And standing here now, watching her study his space like she was composing it—he realized he was far deeper than he’d meant to go.