Page 61 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“The art world disagrees.”

“Then the art world is full of idiots.” He reached out, fingers hovering over a watercolor study of her own hands. “This isn’t decoration. Every shadow in here is doing something. Most artists fake that. You didn’t.”

The words hit harder than they should have. “The galleries don’t care about shadows. They care about connections, whether your aesthetic is trending. I don’t have the right name or the right story. I’m nobody. I just share a face with someone famous.”

“Bullshit.” The word was sharp enough to make her look up. “You don't share a face with her. She shares a face with you. And whatever's making the two of us work on camera—that's you, not her.

She closed the sketchbook a little tighter. “Anyway . . . that’s usually where the story ends. Girl stops submitting. Girl gets a day job. Girl stops calling it art.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“The rejections piled up. After graduation, I sent my portfolio everywhere: galleries, studios, and agencies. They all said the same things. After a while, you hear no, no, no until it’s the only word that makes sense.”

She traced the edge of the sketchbook cover.

“Anneliese tried to help. She always does. But I needed to do it myself. She’s been carrying us since we were teenagers, since our parents died. For once, I wanted to be the one who made it on my own merit. But the rejections kept coming, and it felt . . .” She exhaled. “Easier to put the portfolio away than to keep sending it out.”

Stefan didn’t offer advice. He sat with her, his shoulder almost touching hers.

“My father thought I was a clown,” he said. “A payaso. Back in Cudillero, acting isn’t a career. It’s what children do before they get real jobs.”

He stared at the water.

“When I dropped out of university for my first telenovela, he didn’t speak to me for six months. Didn’t answer calls, didn’t open letters.” Something closed in his face. “I sent him reviews, press clippings, the show was the biggest hit of the season. He sent it all back unopened.”

“Stefan . . .”

“And the irony?” He laughed, bitter. “Hollywood still only sees one thing. The Latin lover. The exotic love interest. Every script wants me shirtless by page ten. Every interviewer asks about my ‘passionate Spanish temperament.’”

He shook his head. “He died thinking I was a joke. Hollywood thinks I’m a stereotype. Neither sees me.”

“I know exactly what that feels like.” She pulled her knees tighter. “Being reduced to one thing. The version of you people decided on before you walked in the room.”

The wind gusted stronger, lifting the sketchbook pages. Neither of them moved.

“You’re not invisible to me,” he said. “You never were.”

“That first week on set, I knew something was off. You looked at the world differently than she does.” His mouth curved. “At the PLUMP party, you were sitting alone watching a waiter balance a tray like it was the most fascinating thing in the room. Anneliese would never sit still that long without an audience.”

A laugh escaped her, surprised and watery. “You clocked me because I was watching a waiter?”

"I clocked you because you were the only person in that room who wasn't performing." He tucked wind-blown hair behind her ear. "She performs for the world. You hide from it. But when you think no one's watching . . ." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "There you are."

Rain fell steadily, dimpling the pool just beyond the cabana's edge, but she couldn't move. His hand cradled her face.

“Stefan.” She wasn’t sure if it was a warning or an invitation.

“I know there are a hundred reasons we shouldn’t⁠—”

“A hundred and twelve. I counted.”

His laugh was soft. “Of course you did.”

“Erika.” Her name, rough and wanting. “Dime que pare. Tell me to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered.

She kissed him.