Page 67 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“And the Morgan situation?”

He exhaled. “Martin’s obsessed with you. It’s making him paranoid. Harder to catch. That’s all I meant.”

She stared at him, and he couldn’t read what was happening behind her eyes. “Why should I trust you?” Her voice was small. Wounded. “You could be saying exactly what I need to hear to keep me quiet.”

“Because the last time someone needed protection from Martin, I failed. I knew what he was. I said nothing. And I’ve spent years regretting it.”

Erika’s lips parted. The hollow look in her eyes cracked, the first flicker of wanting to believe.

“I’m not making that mistake again. Not with you.”

"You didn't even like me a month ago."

"I've never once not liked you." A short, humorless laugh. "I liked you in that restaurant before I knew your real name. I liked you while we fought in our training sequences. Even when I didn't realize it was you. Some idiot part of me clocked it before the rest of me caught up—that you weren't performing, not really, not even when you were trying to be her. I just didn't have anywhere to put it yet."

The silence stretched between them, filled with wind and the weight of everything he’d just admitted. She was searching his face, her eyes moving over his features.

He held still and let her look.

“You’re freezing,” he said finally. “Whatever you decide about me, you need to get warm. Please.”

“I’m not asking you to trust me.” He pulled off his jacket—soaked through, but it was something—and held it out to her. “I’m asking you to not die of hypothermia while you figure out whether I’m worth trusting.”

A sound escaped her. Something close to a laugh.

“That’s your argument? Don’t freeze to death?”

“It’s a good argument. Very practical.”

She stared at the jacket, then at him. He kept his arm extended.

“Everything I’ve done since I got here has been to protect you. Not Anneliese. Not the production. You.” He swallowed. “And I don’t know when it stopped being about the secret and started being about you. But it did. And I can’t take that back.”

Her breath caught, a slight hitch in her breath. Her grip on the sketchbook loosened.

“Everyone lies to me.” Her voice cracked. “Anneliese lies to me, Martin lies to me, the whole industry is built on lies. And you’re an actor. It’s literally your job to make people believe things that aren’t real.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I get paid to lie. I’m good at it. But I’m not lying now. And I don’t know how to prove that except to stand here and let you decide.”

She exhaled. The sketchbook slipped from her grip and landed in the mud, and she didn’t look down. The wind hadn't let up.

“I’m so tired of being smart.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and her expression shifted. The fight drained out of her. “I’m so tired of protecting myself from things that might hurt me. I’ve been doing it my whole life, and I’m still—” She stopped. “I’m still so alone.”

Joder. He wanted to reach for her. Wanted to pull her against him. Promise her she’d never be alone again. But this had to be her choice. He couldn’t take it from her.

“You’re not alone,” he said. “Not anymore. Not if you don’t want to be.”

She stared at him. Water caught in her lashes, slid over lips he'd been thinking about for weeks.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, water dripping from his jaw, “you’re not alone right now. You’re stranded in a hurricane with a washed-up actor who can’t feel his feet.” His voice softened. “Could be worse.”

“Could be better,” she said. But her mouth was doing something it hadn’t done since he’d found her, almost smiling.

She stepped out of the cart and crossed the distance between them in three strides, fisted her hand in his soaked shirt, and yanked him toward her. Not running. Coming back. Her other hand came up to grip the back of his neck, and she pulled his mouth down to hers. It wasn’t like the pool—that had been quiet, a question asked and answered. This was everything that had happened since, compressed into contact.

Cold. She was so cold—her mouth, her fingers, the soaked fabric of her clothes pressing against his chest. But underneath the cold was heat, desperate and hungry, and when she opened her mouth against his, he stopped thinking about temperature.

His hands found her waist, her back, hauling her closer until there was no space left between them. She made a sound against his mouth—half gasp, half sob—and he swallowed it, felt her fingers dig into his shoulders like she was afraid he’d disappear.