Page 50 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Peligroso.

He leaned against the counter, mirroring her crossed arms. She had freckles Anneliese didn’t have and a mouth he couldn’t stop thinking about.

“So, talk.”

“On the jet ski.” Her voice was steady, but he caught the tremor in her fingers where they gripped her elbows. “You said my name.”

“Your engine was dead. You were stranded. It slipped out.” Not entirely true, but close enough.

“My real name.” She stepped closer, eyes blazing. “With a rescue crew ten feet away.”

“And not one of them heard it.” He held her gaze. “I was careful, Erika. I’m always careful.”

“Then why say it at all?”

He pushed off the counter and took one step toward her. She didn’t retreat—if anything, she squared her shoulders—and Dios, she was beautiful when she was angry.

“You tell me. You came all the way here to ask—so ask.”

Her chin lifted. “Fine. On the jet ski—you used my name. My real name. And when I asked, you said ‘not like this’ and let the rescue boat bail you out.”

“So I'm here. Like this. How long have you known?” The words came out hard.

He studied her face—the tight set of her mouth, the tension in her jaw. “The Beau Monde party,” he said finally. “When I asked about tequila. The silver dress.”

Her brow furrowed. “What Beau Monde party?”

“Exactly.” That little crease between her brows. “There was no party. I made it up. You went along with it because you didn’t know any better.” He shrugged. “Anneliese would’ve called bullshit in three seconds.”

She exhaled, almost a laugh. “So I failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.”

“You didn’t fail anything.” His voice softened. “You just weren’t her.”

“You’ve had since the jet ski to tell Martin. To call Page Eight. One anonymous tip, and my sister’s career is over. Mine too.” She stepped into his space, close enough that he could see the fury building behind her eyes. “So what’s the play, Stefan? What do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop looking at me like I’m the enemy. That’s what I want.”

“Everyone in this industry wants something. You don’t just sit on a secret like this out of the goodness of your heart.”

“No. You sit on it because the alternative is watching someone get destroyed, and you’ve already seen that happen once.” “I'm not Martin.” The words came out stripped bare.

“And maybe I’m tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Her finger jabbed his chest. “I keep running scenarios—what I’ll say to Anneliese, how I’ll explain that I trusted the one person she told me to stay away from.”

“You think I’ve been holding this over you? Like blackmail?”

“Haven’t you?”

“No.” He caught her wrist before she could jab him again, fingers closing around the delicate bones. Her wrist shook against his palm. “I’ve been protecting you, you stubborn⁠—”

“I didn’t ask for your protection.”

“You didn’t have to.” He released her wrist like it burned. “You think I enjoy staring at the ceiling at three in the morning, wondering why I give a damn what happens to you?”

“Why do you? You hate my sister. You’ve made that abundantly clear. So why protect her shadow?”

The word landed. Shadow. He saw the flash of pain she tried to hide—there and gone, swallowed by anger. His heart lurched.

“That’s not⁠—”