Page 87 of The Hollywood Switch-up

He let the silence stretch. The ceiling fan turned above them. Morning light slanted across the sheets, catching the curve of her shoulder where the fabric had slipped.

“Then I get to decide what we do next.”

Her face shifted.

She threw off the sheet and reached for his T-shirt from last night, pulling it over her head. It hung to mid-thigh, the collar slipping off one shoulder. She looked ridiculous, and he wanted to keep her in that shirt forever.

“Two-minute head start,” she said from the doorway, one hand braced on the frame. “And when I win—and I am going to win—I want breakfast for a week and an apology in writing.”

“Deal.” He reached for his running shorts. “But you won’t.”

She held his gaze for a beat and bolted.

The screen door slammed behind her. Through the window, he watched her sprint down the path toward the beach, his shirt flapping around her thighs, her bare feet kicking up sand. She looked back once, laughing, hair streaming behind her.

He gave her ten seconds. Fifteen. The anticipation coiled in his chest. The absurdity of this woman who hated running sprinting barefoot through sand because he’d baited her into it.

Then he went after her.

He came up on her fast—his feet hitting packed sand near the waterline—and the sound she let out was somewhere between a shriek and a laugh. “You said two minutes!”

He grinned, pushed harder. The sand was cool and damp under his feet. Today, the world had narrowed to her. The way she pumped her arms with the frantic determination of someone who’d never run competitively in her life.

She veered toward the tree line. He knew every root.

She didn’t.

Her foot caught—a rock, a root, he couldn’t tell—and she stumbled, arms wheeling. He could have caught her then. Almost did. But she recovered, found her footing, and kept going with a determination that left him raw.

Bien. Let her fight for it.

Fifty yards to the rocks. She was flagging—shoulders hunched, stride shortening. Stubborn as hell and refusing to quit.

Love.

The word hit him mid-stride. He kept running.

Thirty yards. Twenty. She might actually make it⁠—

He went down.

Hit the sand hard, rolling onto his back with a grunt that wasn’t entirely fake. The impact knocked the wind out of him, sending sand spraying across his stomach.

She caught herself. Turned. Her breathing was ragged, her cheeks flushed, his shirt clinging to her with sweat.

“Stefan?” Her footsteps came back toward him—hesitant at first, then faster. “Stefan, are you⁠—”

He caught her ankle.

She yelped. Then she fell. They were rolling, tangled in the sand, both breathing hard. Grains in her hair, in his mouth, between their bodies where his shirt had ridden up.

“You faked it.” She was gasping, delighted. “You absolute⁠—”

He flipped them. Caught her wrists above her head, his body covering hers. Sand clung to her hair, her cheek, the collar of his shirt where it gaped open. Her chest heaved into his.

“Caught you.”

Her eyes were bright. Wild. “That’s cheating. I was winning.”