Page 90 of The Hollywood Switch-up

For a while they just breathed. His hands on her back, her fingers in his hair. The sun climbed higher, warming the sand around them, and neither of them moved to acknowledge the world waiting beyond the tree line.

“We’re going to get caught,” she said against his neck. Not worried. Just stating a fact.

“Probably.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “Worth it.”

Somewhere in the palms behind them, a twig snapped. Stefan lifted his head. Listened. Nothing but wind through the fronds.

STEFAN

They made it back to his villa without being seen—a minor miracle. She was covered in sand and wearing nothing but his T-shirt.

The morning had shifted while they were on the beach. The light was higher now, sharper. Somewhere beyond the palm line, a generator hummed to life. The real world reassembling itself around them.

“Shower,” she announced, already peeling off his sand-crusted shirt. She was backlit by the window, sand dusting her shoulders. A bruise bloomed on her hip where the tree bark had scraped. He’d have to be more careful next time.

“I have sand in places sand should never be,” she said, tossing the shirt at his face. He caught it, too busy watching her stretch—arms overhead, spine arching.

“I could help with that. I’m very thorough. You may have noticed.”

She paused at the bathroom door and glanced back over her shoulder. “You’ve helped enough this morning. Any more help and I won’t be able to walk to set.” Her eyes dropped to his chest, his stomach, lower. Lingered. “Try not to fall apart without me.”

The door clicked shut. Water hissed on.

Stefan stood in his villa, grinning like an idiot. Sand everywhere, her shirt still warm in his hands. He lifted it to his face. Salt, sweat, coconut. Her.

Christ.

He couldn’t remember ever feeling this way.

He was in love with her. Joder. No going back now.

His phone lit up on the counter. Three missed calls from Alex, each thirty seconds apart—the pattern that meant something was on fire.

Through the bathroom door, Erika had switched from humming to singing—badly, confidently. He turned away from the door and answered.

“Alex.”

“Bradley Smart. A freelance paparazzo caught him leaving the Malibu wellness center yesterday—time-stamped, geotagged, the whole thing. He’s shopping it to three tabloids and a gossip site.” Alex’s voice was clipped. “If this runs, someone’s going to ask why Anneliese Morgan is in Malibu with Bradley when she’s supposed to be filming in the Caribbean. And once they start asking that question, Stefan, they don’t stop.”

The warmth drained out of him. He pressed his palm against the cool glass of the window. Beyond it, the ocean glittered.

“Buy it. Whatever he wants.”

A long silence. He could hear Alex calculating.

“That’s eight hundred thousand. Maybe more if he smells desperation.” Another pause. “This is her mess, Stefan. Her sister’s mess. Not yours.”

Eight hundred thousand. For a woman he’d known for weeks. For a secret that wasn’t even his.

“It’s mine now.”

“Because of Erika.” Not a question.

Stefan didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Through the door, she was singing louder now, mangling the lyrics with cheerful disregard.

“I’ve watched you throw money at problems before,” Alex said. “I’ve watched you blow up your own life for women who weren’t worth the matches. But this is fraud, Stefan. If the switch comes out, you’re not collateral damage—you’re complicit. You understand that?”

“And Sarah’s going to lose her mind when this hits the books,” Alex added. “That’s a conversation you’re having, not me.”