Page 98 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Rough night. I just need to get through today.

Stefan:

You don’t text like that when things are fine.

She closed her eyes. Of course he noticed. He always noticed.

Erika:

I promise. I just need some air. Please.

He didn’t respond for a long time. Then:

Stefan:

Estoy aquí. Cuando estés lista.

She didn’t know all the words, but she knew estoy aquí—he’d said it to her on set weeks ago, hand on her shoulder, when she was still pretending to be someone else and he already knew. It had been safe then. Now it was what she was about to destroy.

She dropped the phone on the bed, grabbed her bag, and left. The humidity hit thick and salt-heavy the moment she stepped outside.

She didn’t look at Stefan like she’d spent the night in his arms. Hit her marks, smiled when the scene called for it, and performed the version of herself that didn’t have a photograph hidden in a sketchbook and a leash around her throat.

Lily came up beside her, tablet in hand. “You look like you swallowed something sharp and you’re trying to smile through it.” She tilted her head. “What happened between last night and right now?”

“Nothing. Bad sleep.”

“You’re a terrible liar. Which is a problem, because in about ten minutes you’re going to be on camera and Martin reads faces better than I do.” Lily opened her mouth to push harder, but Stefan was already crossing toward them—still in his own clothes, hair damp from a shower, a coffee in each hand because he’d made her one anyway despite what she’d texted.

“Made you one anyway.” He held the coffee out, the easy grin in place.

She reached for the cup, and when their fingers brushed, her whole body flinched—sharp, involuntary, the kind of recoil you can’t dress up as anything else.

He didn’t miss it. The grin stayed but his eyes shifted. He set the coffee on the equipment case beside her.

“Talk to me.” Quiet enough that Lily couldn’t hear.

“I’ll be fine once I’m on camera. Always am.”

That last part was cruel and she knew it—always am, like last night was just another performance. She watched it land, watched him absorb it. He didn’t flinch the way she had. His knuckle grazed her jaw, barely a touch, and he walked away without pushing.

Which was worse. So much worse than if he’d pushed.

Lily’s hand found her arm. “Okay. You and me. Before lunch.” Not a request.

Erika grabbed the excuse and bolted, the back of her neck prickling the whole way.

“Scene forty-two. The kiss.” Martin’s voice carried across the set. “I want to see a woman who’s terrified of how much she wants something that’s going to destroy her.” He looked directly at her when he said it. “Show me that.”

She’d known this was coming. It had been on the call sheet for days. But she hadn’t expected to film it today. After last night. After the photo. After Martin had made it clear he’d been watching.

Stefan came up beside her, already in costume. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t try the easy grin. Just stood close enough that she could smell the beach on his skin and said, “I’ve got you. Whatever you need this to be, I’ll follow your lead.”

Someone called places. The lights came up. Martin leaned into the monitor, fingers steepled.

“Action.”

Stefan’s hand cupped her face—gentle, tentative, scripted. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, and her breath caught. Not acting. Not even close.