Page 91 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“Wire the money today, Alex.”

“Fine. I’ll make the calls.” A long exhale. “But Erika deserves to know what you’re doing for her. She’s not going to thank you for this.”

The shower shut off. The sudden quiet felt louder than the water had.

The door opened. Steam billowed out. Erika emerged wrapped in his towel, skin flushed pink, still smiling. She mouthed “Who’s that?” and gestured at the phone.

He covered the speaker. “Alex. Work stuff.”

She nodded and padded toward the kitchen. Like she belonged here.

“I’ll handle it,” Stefan said into the phone, and the line went dead. The easy domesticity of it cut into him—her bare feet on his tile, her wet hair leaving dark spots on the towel, the way she reached for the top shelf, the towel slipped, she caught it without breaking stride. He’d spent eight hundred thousand dollars to keep this woman safe and she was standing in his kitchen debating whether his crackers were expired.

She looked over and caught him staring. The teasing died on her face.

“That wasn’t a work call.” Not a question. “Something’s wrong and you’re doing that thing where you decide I can’t handle it.”

“It’s handled. I promise.” He crossed the kitchen and pulled her in, pressing his lips to her forehead, breathing her in. Coconut and his soap. She let him hold her a beat too long, which meant she didn’t believe him but was giving him the grace to tell her in his own time.

He loved her for it. The needing was the part he couldn’t forgive himself for.

She stepped back, and the grace period ended. “Forty minutes to call time and I’m standing in your kitchen in a towel with no clothes, no makeup, and what I’m fairly certain is a hickey the size of Rhode Island on my collarbone.”

Her clothes had scattered across his villa like evidence at a crime scene—her shirt crumpled by the bathroom door, one shoe by the couch, the other inexplicably on the kitchen counter. Her underwear had vanished entirely.

“I think your bra is on the ceiling fan,” he offered. “I’m choosing not to examine how it got there.”

“This is a crime scene, Stefan. An actual crime scene. CSI could reconstruct our entire evening from the forensic evidence in this room.” She was scanning for options, when her gaze landed on his robe hanging on the door. Monogrammed.

She grabbed it, shoved her arms through the sleeves. It swallowed her whole, the initials blazing across her chest.

“I look like I’m doing a walk of shame sponsored by your publicist.” She caught her reflection in the window and winced. “Lena is going to take one look at me and retire from the industry.”

He closed the distance. Cupped her face in his hands. Kissed her—slow, deep. When he pulled back, her eyes were soft. Trusting him with a version of herself that no one else got to see.

“Tonight,” he told her. “Dinner. Just us. You’re going to sit on my counter, steal my wine, tell me about every terrible thing that happened on set today. And I’m going to pretend I’m not staring at you the whole time.”

“That’s a very specific evening.”

“I’ve been thinking about it since you walked through my door in that Radiohead shirt.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Go. Before I make us both unemployable.”

She slipped out the door. He watched her go. Her bare feet on the stone path, the morning light catching her hair.

ERIKA

Erika clutched the robe tighter, speed-walking past palm trees and what felt like seventeen thousand potential witnesses. The gold SC practically glowed in the morning sun—cadmium yellow, her brain supplied unhelpfully.

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.

Her bare feet slapped the stone path. Her clothes were still somewhere in his villa, laughing at her.

Just get to the villa. Don’t run. You’re fine. Just a woman in a robe at seven in the morning.

She rounded the corner by the main garden and nearly collided with Lena. Shit.

The PA stood frozen on the path, script pages clutched to her chest. Her gaze traveled from Erika’s tangled hair, to the monogrammed robe, to her feet—a full journey of professional assessment.

One perfectly arched eyebrow rose approximately half a millimeter.