Page 9 of The Hollywood Switch-up

A young woman with wide, star-struck eyes materialized before her. “Anneliese! Oh my gosh, I’m such a huge fan!” the girl squealed, phone already angled for a selfie. “Could I please get a picture?”

“Oh, I’m actually not—” In the dim corridor, with the glam makeup, the designer dress, and her hair down in soft waves framing her face, she supposed she could pass for Annie at a glance.

But the girl was a whirlwind of energy. “Oh my gosh, that Kristi LaDor campaign you did? I have the pictures all over my vision board! You were so amazing! Please?” She held the phone out, pleading.

Faced with such overwhelming excitement, Erika couldn’t bring herself to disappoint her. “Um, sure,” she said, and composed her face for the camera’s lens.

“Thank you so much!” the girl said, already staring down at her phone. Her expression faltered. She squinted at the picture, then back at Erika’s face. “Oh my God. You’re not her, are you? I’m so sorry—you must be her sister.”

The girl went red. “I saw you on her Live today. Wow, you really do look alike in the right lighting.”

Her embarrassment quickly morphed into a new, hopeful plea. She thrust a napkin and a pen at Erika. “Could you . . . could you maybe get this to her? Ask her to sign it for me? My name is Mia.”

Erika took the napkin, the request a fresh sting of inadequacy. She wasn’t a flawed copy; she was a go-between, a conduit to the real star. Maybe she should start charging a finder’s fee.

“Sure. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you!” The girl beamed, her earlier mistake forgotten. She hurried away, leaving Erika standing alone in the corridor, holding a stranger’s hope. The brown-eyed footnote. It was a role she was tired of playing. She took a breath, and turned to head back to the party.

She almost made it.

“That looked painful.” The voice was a low, resonant baritone, laced with an accent she couldn’t quite place.

She jumped. Stefan Cruz was leaning against the wall in the corridor, partially cloaked in shadows—a study in chiaroscuro, all sharp angles and dramatic contrast as if he’d positioned himself for maximum effect and probably had.

“Excuse me?” The word came out embarrassingly thin.

“The fan. Being mistaken for someone else, then dismissed. It can’t be easy.” He pushed off the wall. The movement brought him a step closer, his focus entirely on her. The air between them was dense, charged.

“Were you following me?” The accusation came out sharper than she intended.

His mouth curved. “Following you? I prefer to think of it as . . . paying attention.” He took another step closer. “Anneliese Morgan has a famous face. But she doesn’t have the small, heart-shaped birthmark behind her ear.” His gaze flickered to the spot on her neck, and Erika’s hand flew up to cover it before she could stop it. “And she doesn’t have your eyes.”

He hadn’t guessed. He knew.

“That’s either impressive or creepy,” she said. “I haven’t decided which.”

Surprise crossed his face. Or amusement. “Take your time. I’ve been called worse tonight.”

“I’m Stefan.” He paused, letting her fill the silence.

“I know who you are.” She lifted her chin. “You’re the man who called my sister talentless on national television.”

“. . . And you are?”

“Erika.” She hadn’t meant to give it up.

“Erika,” he repeated, low and deliberate, and she hated how much she liked hearing it. “You have a terrible poker face.”

“You were watching me.” It wasn’t a question this time.

“I was,” he said, his eyes on her face like a held breath. “You’re more interesting than anyone else in that room.”

“That’s a low bar.”

His laugh was unexpected—low and genuine, not the practiced charm she’d seen on the carpet. “Fair point.”

His expression hardened. He took another step closer. Heat rolled off him, and whatever he was wearing did something to her knees she didn't want to examine too closely. Heat rolled off him, and whatever he was wearing did something to her knees she didn't want to examine too closely.