Page 68 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Her teeth caught his lower lip. His hand slid into her wet hair, tilting her head back so he could kiss her deeper. She arched into him, and what she gave him hit low and sharp.

The storm could have leveled the island around them. He wouldn’t have noticed. When they finally broke apart, both gasping, her forehead dropped against his chin. Her fingers were still tangled in his shirt, still holding on like she wasn’t ready to let go.

Then, in the distance, cutting through the wind—the ferry horn. Long. Final.

Erika stiffened in his arms. They both turned to watch the lights slide into the gray until only the storm remained.

She turned back to him. Her lips were swollen, her eyes still red, and she was shaking harder than before.

“I can’t feel my hands,” she said.

“I know.” He was already steering her toward the villa, one arm around her shoulders, shielding her from the wind. “You’ve been sitting in that cart long enough to qualify as a medical emergency. We’re getting you inside.”

She let him steer her.

“You can figure out what this means tomorrow. Right now, you need to be warm.” He tightened his grip against a gust that nearly knocked them sideways. “One thing at a time. You can yell at me more once we’re inside”

“I wasn’t yelling earlier,” she said. Her voice was raw, barely there. She was shivering so hard the words came out staccato.

“You were absolutely yelling. It was terrifying.” He tucked her tighter against his side, his tone light but his eyes focused on the door ahead. “Come on. Move.”

Getting her inside was harder than it should have been, the wind fighting them every step, and by the time he got the door open and pulled her through, they were both gasping. The door slammed shut. Sudden silence, the storm muffled to a distant roar. Then the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Died.

Coño.

He found candles in the kitchen drawer, lit enough to cast the room in flickering gold. When he turned back, Erika hadn’t moved—still standing where he’d left her, arms wrapped around herself, water pooling at her feet.

“My sketchbook,” she said. “I left it in the mud.”

“I know.” He didn’t offer to go back for it. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded once. He found dry clothes for both of them. She emerged in his shirt, blonde dye streaked, looking nothing like the polished actress the world thought they knew.

“Come here,” he said.

She crossed the room slowly and folded onto the couch beside him, pulling her knees to her chest. He lifted the blanket, an invitation. She leaned into him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder. He pulled the blanket over them both. Her shivering slowly eased.

“I wanted to be wrong about you,” she whispered. “I wanted so badly to be wrong.”

He tightened his arms around her and pressed his lips to her hair. “You were.”

Her fingers curled into his shirt. Within minutes, her breathing had evened out. Asleep. Trusting him enough to fall asleep in his arms after everything.

He stared at the candlelight on the ceiling and didn’t move for a long time.

ERIKA

Golden light filtered through rain-streaked windows. The leather smell of an unfamiliar couch. A blanket was tucked around her shoulders. And a warmth at her back that didn’t match the morning sun.

She was still wearing his shirt, curled against his chest with his arm draped heavily across her waist.

When she tilted her head, she found him already watching her.

“You drool,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “There’s a wet spot on my shirt. I’m choosing to find it endearing.”

“That is categorically false and you have no proof.” She pushed up on one elbow and caught the smirk tugging at his mouth. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to know you also talk in your sleep.” His thumb traced an absent pattern on her hip through the borrowed fabric. “Something about screenplay notes. Very detailed. You really don't like act two.”