Page 95 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“I was saving it.” He held out his hand, palm up. The lantern light caught the line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes. “I needed the right occasion.”

“A man with a guitar and a secret beach.” She took his hand, let him pull her down beside him. “This is either very romantic or the opening scene of a true crime documentary.”

“Can’t it be both?” His thumb traced the inside of her wrist. Then softer, “Mírate. That shadow under your collarbone—I wanted to trace it all day on set and couldn’t touch you.”

The honesty of it disarmed her more than the Spanish. She didn’t deflect.

He’d packed well. Cheese, grapes, crusty bread, and cured meat that tasted like it cost more than her rent. She raised an eyebrow at him as she popped another grape.

“Did you rob craft services, or is there a deli I don’t know about?”

“The resort kitchen owed me a favor.” He stretched back on his elbows, obscenely relaxed. “I may have convinced the chef that my tita’s paella recipe would change his life.”

“Did it?”

“He wept.” Stefan grinned. “Actual tears. It was very satisfying.”

They ate, and she forgot to perform. That was the thing about Stefan—he didn’t fill silence with noise. He just let it sit there, warm and unhurried.

“That last take today,” he said. “The rooftop. You know the moment I mean—where Luna turns back and the line lands before you even say it.” He refilled her glass. “The whole crew went quiet. Not polite, quiet. Forgot they were working quietly.”

She turned a piece of bread over in her fingers. “I wasn’t thinking. That’s what was different. I wasn’t hitting marks or remembering where the camera was. I just—found her.”

“That’s the thing nobody tells you about acting. The good version of it feels like the opposite of acting.”

“When does it stop being terrifying?”

“I’ll let you know.” His shoulder settled against hers. “Fifteen years in and I still white-knuckle half my takes. The rest is muscle memory and hoping nobody notices.”

She looked at him—the easy posture, the rolled sleeves. “You’re telling me Stefan Cruz gets scared on set.”

“I’m telling you everyone does. The difference between you and half the actors I’ve worked with is you think the fear means you don’t belong here.” He picked up the wine bottle. “It means the opposite.”

The waves broke against the sand. “I keep waiting for the whole thing to collapse. For someone to look at me and just—know.”

“They won’t.”

“You did.”

The quiet settled between them. Not awkward—just full.

Her gaze drifted to the guitar propped against the cooler. “Is that for show, or do you actually play?”

Stefan’s face shifted, the confidence dimming. “My father taught me. Said if I was going to break his heart by leaving the village, I should at least take something home with me.”

She waited.

“He passed away when I was twenty-three. Heart attack. I was on set in Vancouver when I got the call.” He said it plainly. “I still play the songs he taught me. He’d be furious I don’t practice more.”

He reached for the guitar and settled it against his chest like it belonged there. Thumbed a chord. “Alma de mi vida. The story of a love. Old, sad, very dramatic—he used to play it for my mother when he thought no one was watching. I’d spy on them through the kitchen window.”

He played. Not the casual strumming of a man who’d learned enough to impress at parties. This was muscle memory—a father’s patient hands guiding his son’s across the frets, years ago, worn into bone. His fingers moved sure and unhurried. Light caught the tendons in his wrists. His eyes were half-closed, his voice found the melody, low, under his breath. Sin tu alma, mi vida se apagó. It cracked on a note, and he kept going.

A man giving himself away with a dead man’s song. She wanted to paint him like this—the exact angle of his jaw, grief and music in the same breath. He wasn’t performing for anyone, least of all her.

The last note held longer than it should have, and then there were only the waves. Stefan looked up, and his expression shifted—tender, wary.

She didn’t realize she was crying until his thumb crossed her cheek and came away wet.