Page 60 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Lils:

Storm upgraded. Shooting’s off for the day. Martin tried to overrule the weather and lost. Sleep in—you’ve earned it.

Lils:

Also Isabelle is “taking meetings” which means she’s interrogating people over room service. Stay in your villa if you can. I’ll run interference.

A whole day with no cameras. No Martin. She threw off the covers. The villa felt smaller than usual. Her gaze caught on the dresser—the sketchbook. She hadn’t opened it since arriving on the island. But she opened it now.

Outside, the storm had eased to a fine mist, the wind dying down to something almost gentle—a lull, not an ending. The pool deck was deserted, the covered cabana at its edge the only dry spot on the property. She settled into a lounge chair under it, opened to a blank page, and told herself it was practice.

She’d meant to draw the storm. That’s not what happened.

The broad sweep of shoulders emerged first, then the column of a throat. Water streaming down skin in rivulets. She worked in quick strokes, shading the planes of his chest. The jaw came easily, strong and stubborn, shadowed with stubble she could almost feel beneath her fingertips.

The mouth gave her trouble. How did you capture a smirk like his? She erased twice, three times, before getting the curve of his lower lip right. His eyes defeated her. She’d been studying them since week one. Dark and knowing, with flecks of amber she’d only noticed when he stood close enough to blur.

“Interesting technique.”

She froze, then slammed the sketchbook shut so hard the pages crumpled, spinning to find Stefan standing there with coffee in hand and a grin that made her want to shove him into the pool.

“Do you just materialize out of thin air, or is sneaking up on people a hobby?”

“I walked across the entire deck. You were too busy to notice.” His gaze dropped to the sketchbook she was clutching. “Anatomy practice?”

“Figure drawing. Standard exercise.”

He raised an eyebrow and settled into the lounge chair beside hers, uninvited. “And you happened to choose my figure?”

Her neck went hot. “I was working from general memory. Of bodies. Not specifically yours.”

“Corazón, I saw my own abs. I know what they look like.” He sipped his coffee. “You got the proportions right, by the way. I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. I’ve drawn hundreds of figure studies. You’re just . . .”

“Convenient.” That dimple appeared. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

He set his coffee down on the side table between the loungers, his voice going quiet. “You were really concentrating. I stood there for almost a minute before you noticed. Can I see more of the drawing?”

“No.” She clutched the sketchbook tighter.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s embarrassing and unfinished.”

“I won’t judge.” He nodded toward the sketchbook, where a corner of an older drawing was visible. “That’s not amateur hour. That’s real skill.”

She gripped tighter, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the drawing of his half-naked body.

“You’ve seen me without my guard. Last night, by the pool, I don’t say things like that to people. About Isabelle. About any of it.” He held her gaze. “Fair’s fair.”

Instead, she opened the sketchbook and flipped past the drawing of him to the older work. A portrait of a cat mid-yawn, every whisker drawn in careful detail. Stefan didn’t grab the sketchbook. He waited for her to turn the pages.

“This one’s old.” She paused on the hills behind CalArts at dusk. “The lighting was a nightmare. I must have mixed that shadow color forty times.”

He leaned closer, and she caught coffee and soap and skin. “It looks like you could walk into it.” When she ran out of pages, neither of them spoke.

“Erika.” His voice was different now. “This is what you should be doing.”