Page 96 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“Your father,” she said. Her voice was rough but she didn’t bother smoothing it. “The way you played that—like you were having a conversation with someone who wasn’t here anymore.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I paint like that sometimes. Arguing with a canvas about something I can’t say out loud. I didn’t know music could do the same thing.”

He set the guitar aside, his knee pressing against hers, and was quiet long enough that she almost took it back.

“Nobody’s ever heard it like that before.” His fingers found the back of her neck, threading into her hair. “Everyone else hears a sad song. You heard him.”

She kissed him first.

It wasn’t a decision so much as a collapse—the distance between them unbearable, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him down to her. He made a low, relieved sound against her mouth, arms wrapping around her.

They tumbled back onto the blanket. His weight pressed her down, and she arched up into him, needing every inch of contact. His mouth left hers to trace her throat, teeth grazing her pulse, and she gasped.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes dark and searching. “Every day I have to pretend on set that this isn't the only thing I think about. I'm getting worse at it, not better.”

Her laugh came out shaky. “You hid it better than I did.”

“Barely.” He kissed her jaw, the corner of her mouth. “Every time you looked away from the camera, I wanted to drag you off set and remind you I was watching too.”

His hand found the hem of her dress. “Yes?”

“Yes.” She lifted her hips.

He took his time—mouth on her collarbone, tracing the soft curve of her breast, her stomach. Lantern light painted gold across his shoulders; waves whispered in the dark. She clutched his shoulders, anchoring herself as heat built under her skin.

“I want to keep every sound you make tonight,” he said against her hip, voice rough with reverence.

“Then don’t stop,” she whispered. “Make me remember this when I’m alone again.”

He groaned low and moved lower, building her up with deliberate strokes until her thighs trembled against his shoulders. When she shattered, he held her through the aftershocks, kissing tears from her cheeks, saying soft Spanish she caught only in fragments.

Then he rose over her, skin against skin, nothing between them but moonlight and salt air. He paused, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged.

“Look at me.”

She did. His eyes held hers. “I keep waiting for the moment you disappear,” he said. “Like the set wraps and you’re gone. And then you’re still here.”

He pushed inside her slowly. She winced at the stretch, the fullness. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, nails pressing into his back.

They moved together—slow at first, then deeper. Pleasure built, her arching to meet him, his groans low against her ear.

“Te necesito aquí,” he said against her skin. “Aunque sea solo esta noche.”

The words undid her. She clung harder, overwhelmed—by sensation, by him. When she came apart beneath him—shaking, tears spilling again—he followed, her name torn out of him, spilling into her with a broken, shuddering sound.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, the blanket half-buried in sand. He traced patterns on her hip, his breathing slowing against her shoulder. She gazed at the stars overhead, and the ground opened beneath her.

I love him.

Well. Fuck.

The thought landed and her whole body went still. She loved him, and that was the most terrifying thing, because this wasn’t her life. Borrowed time on a borrowed island. And when the cameras stopped rolling, when she went back to being just Erika, would any of this survive?

“You went somewhere,” he said, half-asleep, nose against her hair.

“I’m thinking about how sandy this blanket is,” she said. “This is going in my memoir. Chapter one: death by exfoliation.”

“This is what I get for trying to be romantic,” he said. “Serenaded you, fed you, made love to you under the stars, and your takeaway is sand.”

“It was perfect,” she said. “Sand and all.”