Page 58 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Drop it.

Alex M.:

I've been your business manager for fifteen years. I won’t drop it. Who is she?

A long pause. He didn't type anything.

Alex M.:

That's what I thought.

Boss Man:

Just keep me posted.

Alex M.:

Always do. But Stefan—a twin swap on a Martin Blackwell production? That’s not career suicide, that's a career homicide. Be careful.

His phone buzzed again before he could pocket it.

Sarah W.:

What is #Stennalise?? Call me. Verramago’s people just called for the first time in months. Along with two others.

He silenced it and tossed the phone onto a lounge chair. Isabelle watching Martin. Bradley a loose thread. Erika caught in the middle of all of it.

By the time he'd finished his second drink, she was back—cross-legged on the chaise lounge, phone propped against a pool float, filming.

The soft blue glow drew his eye first. Then her. Erika on the chaise lounge, smiling into the camera in a sundress, pool lights catching her neck.

Her whole face rearranged itself into someone else's smile. “Hello, my loves! Absolutely divine. Working with Stefan has been . . . an adventure.”

His towel hit the ground. She gasped. He dove in without a splash and surfaced at her edge.

“Adventure, huh? ¿Una aventura, verdad?”

Her phone screen exploded: heart emojis, thirst, the ship name already trending.

“I’m filming, Stefan,” she said, fumbling to end the stream.

“Were. Past tense.” He rested his forearms on the pool’s edge. “Pretty sure you just gave them enough content to fuel a thousand fan edits.”

“You did that on purpose.” She clutched the phone to her chest.

“I was hot. It’s a pool.” He hadn’t stopped grinning. “Not my fault your audience has taste.”

“Your taste is what got us trending last week. My mentions are going to be nothing but thirst emojis and wedding date guesses for days.” But she was fighting a smile.

“You’re welcome, corazón.”

He eased himself out of the pool, not reaching for a towel. Water dripped from his hair onto the heated concrete between them. He tapped between his eyebrows. “You’ve got that little crease,” he said, “the one you get when Martin asks for take seventeen.”

Her hand flew to her forehead. “I do not have a crease.”

“You do. Right there.” His fingertip hovered just above the spot between her brows. “It’s how I know when you’re worried versus when you’re pretending to be annoyed with me.”

“Maybe I’m both.”