Page 82 of The Hollywood Switch-up

She went cold. He has a pattern. But she didn’t want Martin here, between them, poisoning this.

“The usual director performance notes. Nothing I can’t handle.”

He studied her face, but he let it go. His grin came back—slower this time.

“Don’t forget. Eight o’clock tonight. Wear something that makes you feel like yourself. Not Anneliese.”

“You’ve been planning something all week, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been planning something since you looked me dead in the eye and called me ‘all brawn, no brain.'.” His voice dropped. “That’s when I knew I was in trouble.”

She laughed. “That’s what did it for you? Me telling you to fuck off?”

“Princesa, you have no idea.”

He kissed her then, hard, and she fisted his shirt and pulled him closer. He groaned against her mouth, pushing her back against the warm metal. She was seriously considering saying fuck the surprise when a walkie-talkie crackled nearby.

They broke apart, both breathing hard.

“Eight o’clock,” he said, voice rough. He stepped back, raking a hand through his hair, and he physically reassembled himself.

He slipped around the corner without looking back. If he looked back, they both knew he wouldn’t leave.

Erika pressed her spine against the warm metal and stared at the sky until her breathing evened out. A week since the storm, and she was already drowning in it, willingly, eyes open. A smarter woman would pump the brakes, remember that this had an end date.

STEFAN

Stefan couldn’t remember the last time he’d been nervous about a woman. And yet here he was, adjusting the heat under his grandmother’s paella for the third time in ten minutes, checking the clock like it might have moved backward.

Seven forty-two. Eighteen minutes.

He’d changed the music twice—too moody, then too obvious, now acoustic and Spanish, like Tita’s kitchen on Sunday afternoons. He’d opened the wine to let it breathe, then worried it was breathing too much, then poured himself a glass.

Cálmate, idiota. He’d made this dish a hundred times.

But not for her. Never for someone who saw past the version he sold. He’d invited her here to see him, and now he was terrified she actually would.

The knock came at exactly eight o’clock. He wiped his hands on a dish towel, took a breath that did nothing, and crossed to the door.

Dios mío. He was in so much trouble.

Every woman he’d ever taken to dinner had shown up in something designed to be seen—heels, jewelry, strategic necklines. Erika stood on his threshold in a faded Radiohead shirt with a hole near the collar, a black skirt that stopped above her knees, and bare feet. No armor. No Anneliese. Just her, tugging at the hem like she wasn’t sure she’d gotten the assignment right.

She’d gotten it exactly right. And the fact she didn’t know that made him off-balance in a way he didn’t know what to do with.

“It’s a fifteen-year-old T-shirt,” she started, reading his face wrong. “I can go change⁠—”

He pulled her inside by the hand, kicked the door shut, and kissed her before she could finish the sentence. Not hard—just enough to stop the apology in her throat. When he pulled back, her eyes were wide.

“You look like someone I want to cook dinner for,” he offered. “That’s the highest compliment my Tita ever gave anyone.”

The uncertainty on her face cracked into a smile. “Your grandmother rated people by whether she’d feed them?”

“She had a very strict hierarchy. Family, then priests, then anyone who brought wine.” He took her hand and led her toward the kitchen. “You brought yourself, which puts you above the clergy.”

She laughed, and the nervousness that had been coiling in his stomach all evening finally eased. She was here. She was real. The rest of it—the film, the secrets, Martin—could wait until tomorrow.

The villa smelled of saffron and garlic, and Erika’s stomach growled loud enough for him to hear. She hoisted herself onto the counter beside the stove, bare legs swinging, and stole his wine glass. She took a long sip, surveying the scene—the candles on the terrace, the music drifting from somewhere, the careful arrangement of ingredients beside the stove.