Page 76 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“You know, for someone who pretends to hate me, you’re surprisingly cuddly in your sleep.”

Erika’s eyes flew open. Sunlight streamed through unfamiliar curtains, and Stefan’s voice was rough with sleep, vibrating against her shoulder. His arm was draped heavily across her waist, his bare chest warm against her back.

“I don’t cuddle.”

“You absolutely cuddle. You wrapped around me like a koala.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Very aggressive spooning. I was defenseless.”

She tried to elbow him, but he caught her arm and used the momentum to roll her onto her back. Her stomach flipped.

Last night surfaced in flashes: the pool, his mouth on her, the way he’d carried her to bed. She hadn’t expected to actually sleep. But she had, deeply, dreamlessly.

“You’re insufferable in the morning.”

“I’m insufferable all the time, corazón. This is just the first time you've been close enough to really appreciate it.” He dipped his head to kiss her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “Also, you talk in your sleep.”

Her face burned. “I do not.”

“You do.” That grin again. “Very informative. I learned a lot about your feelings regarding my⁠—”

“You’re making that up.” She shoved at his chest, but he caught her wrists and pinned them above her head—loosely. She could pull free if she wanted to.

“Then why are you blushing, Princesa?”

“Because you’re on top of me and I haven’t had coffee.”

“Flimsy excuse. Terrible deflection.” He kissed her forehead, then her nose, then hovered just above her lips.

She squirmed beneath him, and his breath caught, that sharp intake that meant his self-control was fraying.

“If you keep doing that,” he said, his voice dropping, “my restraint from last night is going to look very impressive by comparison.”

“Maybe I want you to lose it.”

His gaze shifted, the playfulness draining out, replaced by hunger. He hesitated.

Instead, he groaned, dropping his forehead to her shoulder. “Dios mío, you’re trying to kill me.”

“Just keeping you humble.”

He laughed against her skin, then released her wrists and propped himself up on one elbow. His hair was a disaster, dark strands falling across his forehead, a pillow crease on his cheek. This wasn't the Stefan Cruz the cameras got. She didn’t want to look away.

He traced a fingertip along her collarbone. His eyes steadied on hers. “I meant what I said last night. About wanting to do this right.”

Her stomach tightened. “I know.”

“I’m serious, Erika.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I just want to be the guy who annoys you before coffee. That’s it. That’s the whole ambition.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “You’re very good at the annoying part.”

“Years of practice.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Let me romance you properly. Real dates. Bad wine. Worse dancing. The whole thing.”

“We’re trapped on an island.”

“Then I’ll romance you on an island.” His grin turned soft. “And when we get back to the real world, I’ll romance you there, too. If you’ll let me.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “You can romance me. But I reserve the right to mock your efforts mercilessly.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He leaned down to kiss her, soft, unhurried. “Because I have every intention of⁠—”