Page 81 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“I know.” He held her gaze as he delivered Jake’s next line, and beneath the table, his thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of her knee. “I’m going to send the costume department a thank-you note. And then I’m going to peel it off you with my teeth.”

“You say that like you didn’t spend ten minutes fighting with a zipper last night.”

His composure cracked, a caught breath that wasn’t in the script. “That zipper was defective.”

“It was a side zip. They teach those in acting school?”

“I was distracted by what was underneath it.” His thumb pressed harder against her knee. “Which, if I recall correctly, was nothing.”

Her next line evaporated. Shit. Erika scrambled, found the thread, and delivered Luna’s response about not trusting men who smiled too easily. Stefan’s smile flickered—barely perceptible, just for her—and she wanted to murder him, drag him behind the equipment trucks, and make him pay for every second of this. Same energy, really.

“—and cut.” Martin’s voice shattered the moment. Erika pulled back, certain they’d been caught.

But Martin was smiling. “That tension, that heat—exactly what I needed. Whatever you two are channeling, keep doing it.” He clapped once. “Print it. Moving on.”

The crew scattered. Stefan stood, but as he passed her chair, his hand brushed the back of her neck, there and gone, and he said against her ear, “Tonight.”

She didn’t trust herself to respond.

The break between setups stretched long enough for Erika to escape to craft services.

She was reaching for a bottle of water when Martin appeared beside her.

“Beautiful work today.” He said it lightly, not looking at her. “That last take especially. You found it.”

Her stomach dropped. She gave him Anneliese’s camera-ready smile. “Must be the island air.”

“Must be.” He turned to face her. “Though I have to say—and I mean this as a friend—some of the crew have mentioned you seem scattered lately. Forgetting names. Missing small cues. I’ve been covering for you, of course. That’s what directors do.” He stepped closer. “You can always come to me, you know. Privately. I don’t get distracted by other interests.”

His cologne hit her, heavy, and every instinct she had said step back. But Anneliese wouldn’t step back. Anneliese would stand there and smile and file it away for later. So that’s what Erika did.

She followed his glance toward Stefan. Gave him nothing. “Stefan’s been a great scene partner. The chemistry reads, which is all that matters for the film.”

“Oh, I know.” Martin raised a palm. “I’ve just noticed he can be rather . . . intense with his costars. Protective. Attentive. It’s admirable, in its way. But he has a pattern of getting attached during shoots, and it rarely ends well for the women involved. Ask anyone who worked on Midnight Run.”

He patted her arm and stepped away. “Back to work. Let’s make something beautiful today.”

Across the set, Stefan caught her eye. His brow furrowed—you okay?—and she forced a smile.

But Martin’s words were already doing their work. Forgetting names. Missing cues. He has a pattern. That was the thing about poison. A few drops were enough.

The sun was sinking into the ocean by the time Martin called wrap, and Erika needed to breathe.

She slipped between the trucks at the edge of the beach, pressing her back against sun-warmed metal. Five minutes without performing for anyone.

Footsteps. She knew the rhythm before he rounded the corner—that particular unhurried stride that meant he knew exactly where he was going and who he’d find there.

Stefan caught her against the truck. His palms settled at her hips, thumbs finding the strip of bare skin between her shirt and waistband.

“You crossed your legs during that last take and I forgot a line I’ve known for three weeks.” His mouth hovered above hers. “I want you to know I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“You forgot your line because you’re old and your memory is failing.”

“I’m thirty-six.”

“Ancient. Practically retired.” She tugged at his collar, pulling him closer. “What did you want to say to me that couldn’t wait until tonight?”

His expression shifted, the teasing gone. “What did Martin say to you at craft services?”