Page 55 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“You’re staring at my ass.” His breath was warm against her ear, close enough to make her jump. “I’m flattered, but people will talk.”

“I was reviewing blocking.” She spun around, nearly colliding with his chest. He’d pulled on a shirt. Unbuttoned, because apparently, he was allergic to modesty.

Her fingers itched to sketch the way the fabric fell open across his collarbone. Purely for artistic purposes. Obviously. “Not everything is about you.”

“Mm.” His eyes dropped to the call sheet in her hands, then traveled back up. Cataloging her the same way she’d been cataloging him. “You always review blocking upside down?”

She glanced down. Goddammit. She flipped it, cheeks burning. “The light’s bad.”

“The light’s perfect.” A gust of wind whipped across the set, snapping tarps. Stefan didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed fixed on her face. “You didn’t sleep.”

“Neither did you.” The shadows under his eyes matched her own. “Guilty conscience?”

“Something like that.” He steered her toward the equipment trucks, one hand at the small of her back. “Before Martin decides to grace us with his charming personality.”

In the shadow of a grip truck, the wind dropped. Stefan turned to face her.

“Martin’s been telling the studio you’re slipping, ‘inconsistent’ was his word. Don’t give him ammunition.” He adjusted the collar of her costume, fingertips grazing her collarbone. “Isabelle’s going to come at you sideways—the PLUMP party, your ‘recovery,’ why you’ve been quiet on socials. She collects gossip like currency, so when she pushes, you do what Anneliese does best. Redirect. Give her something shiny to chase that isn’t you. Feed her someone else’s scandal and she’ll forget she came for yours.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot for someone who claims he’s not my protector.”

“Call it self-preservation. If you go down, I will lose my best scene partner.” His hand lingered at her collar. “And my best critic.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“Cruz! Morgan!” Martin’s megaphone crackled across the set. “Chase sequence, market, pier jump—all of it before those clouds open up. Move, people!”

“You remember the blocking?”

“Run. Don’t die. Somehow end up in your arms.” She shot him a look. “Seems straightforward.”

His laugh was low. “There she is.” His hand found the curve of her spine, brief, grounding. “Forget Martin. Forget the crew. Just keep your eyes on me and your feet under you. The rest takes care of itself.”

“ACTION!”

Erika ran and sand grabbed at her feet, sucking her down with every step. Her calf muscles screamed. A vendor cart loomed out of nowhere. She threw herself sideways, shoulder clipping a tower of mangoes that exploded across the path behind her. Shouts in three languages. A chicken shrieked and launched itself at her face. She ducked, stumbled, kept moving.

Where is he, where is he, where⁠—

“LEFT!” Stefan’s voice cut through the chaos. His hand closed around her upper arm, yanking her sideways just as a motorcycle roared through the space she’d been occupying half a second before.

They plunged into the market: bodies everywhere—extras playing shoppers, real locals who’d wandered into frame. A fish stall appeared in front of her. She vaulted it without thinking, hands slapping wet scales. Silk scarves tangled around her arms, blinding her. She tore through them⁠—

Stefan was there. Right there. His palm pressed flat against her back, steady and sure.

“You’re doing great.” His voice was low against her ear. “Pier’s twenty yards. Don’t stop.”

She didn’t stop.

They burst out of the market into gray light and open air. The wind hit her like a wall. The pier stretched ahead, weathered wood, gaps between the planks, and at the end⁠—

Ten feet of empty air gaped between the sections of broken pier. Below it, rocks. Churning water. A fall that would break bones if she missed the mat.

Her steps faltered. Her toes curled against the wood.

Stefan crashed into her from behind, his chest against her back, fingers lacing through hers. “Remember what I said—eyes on me, feet under you.” His grip tightened. “One. Two⁠—”

He launched them both before three could leave his lips. The world dropped away.