Page 71 of The Hollywood Switch-up

STEFAN

The pasta water was taking forever to boil. Stefan leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the pot as if he could intimidate it. Generator dead. Gas stove still working. Small mercies.

She’d asked for space. He was respecting that. He was being a goddamn gentleman about it, which was not a word anyone had ever used to describe him before, and frankly, the effort was killing him. Idiota.

He drained the pasta, dumped it into the sauce, and plated it by candlelight. A bottle of wine from the back of a cabinet, probably terrible. He grabbed it anyway.

She’d said she needed time. She hadn’t said she didn’t want him. He kept coming back to that distinction. The sun was almost gone. He picked up the plates.

Vamos. The walk to her villa took thirty seconds, though it felt longer.

He knocked before he could talk himself out of it. Footsteps crossed the tile, unhurried, and the door swung open.

Bare feet. Hair loose and messy. His shirt still hanging off her shoulder, the hem skimming her thighs. She hadn’t changed since this morning, and the sight of her in his clothes did something inconvenient to his ability to form sentences.

“Room service.” He held up the plates. “Standards have really gone downhill since the storm.”

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, which only pulled the fabric tighter across his shirt. Not helpful.

“Take it or leave it. But I made the sauce from scratch, and if you let it go cold, I’ll take it personally.”

She didn’t reach for the plate. Didn’t step aside to let him in, either. One hand gripped the frame.

“I’m not pushing my way in, Erika. The plate can stay and I can go.” He held her gaze. “But I’d rather not.”

She held his gaze long enough that he made himself stay still while she decided. Then she stepped back from the door.

He followed her inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. She'd lit a few candles, gold light flickering across her face, catching in her hair.

She took one of the plates from him and sank onto the couch, tucking her legs beneath her. He sat on the opposite end, leaving careful distance.

He poured two glasses of the wine and handed her one.

“Found this in the back of a cabinet. It’s been there since at least 2019, so it’s either aged beautifully or we’re about to poison ourselves.” He raised his glass. “My Tita always says bad wine is still better than no wine. Of course, she also used to say that about men, so her judgment was questionable.”

That got a real laugh out of her, and the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders released. She took a sip, made a face.

He turned to the pasta, watching her sideways. She was eating, at least. Her shoulders were tight, her free hand fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

He watched her pick at her food, shoulders still tight. "You want to hear something embarrassing?" He didn’t wait for an answer. “I was fifteen, thought I was God’s gift to women, and she decided I needed to learn salsa before I embarrassed the family at my cousin’s wedding.”

Erika raised an eyebrow, fork pausing halfway to her mouth. “You? Bad at something?”

“Terrible. Truly horrific. I stepped on her feet so many times she started wearing steel-toed boots to our lessons.” He leaned back. “Three weeks of this, every night after dinner, and finally she sits me down and says—” he dropped into his grandmother’s accent—“‘Mijo, you dance like a donkey trying to fuck a washing machine.’”

Erika choked on her wine. “She did not say that.”

“Hand to God.” He crossed his heart. “She also said the only way I’d ever get a woman to dance with me was if I paid her, which, in retrospect, was excellent preparation for my modeling career.”

She was laughing now, really laughing. The tension in her shoulders had loosened.

“So did you ever learn?”

“Eventually.” He shrugged. “Took another six months and a lot of bribery. But by the wedding, I could hold my own.” He paused, his voice dropping. “She lives in Cudillero still. Calls me every Sunday and asks when I'm coming home to practice. I haven't gotten better. I've just gotten faster at apologizing. But every time I hear salsa music, I think about those steel-toed boots and her calling me a donkey.”

Erika’s smile shifted, softened. “She sounds amazing.”

“She was.” He took a sip of the terrible wine. “Meanest woman I ever knew. Also, the kindest. She’s the reason I learned to cook, learned to dance, learned that being good at something isn’t the same as being worth something.”