14. Stefan
STEFAN
The world collapsed to a single point of contact—her body beneath his, her breath fast. Salt and coconut filled his nostrils with each breath.
The blush crawled down her neck, nothing like Anneliese’s camera-ready flush.
Real. Raw. This was Anneliese Morgan. The woman who’d thrown champagne in his face.
The woman he was supposed to hate. So why did everything in him want to stay exactly where he was?
Her gaze dropped to his mouth—he caught that—and he wanted her. Estás jodido, Cruz.
His lips grazed the shell of her ear. “If you wanted me on top of you,” he murmured, “you just had to ask.”
A tremor rippled through her body. He pulled back just enough to see her face. “Though I have to say . . . you’re full of surprises, Morgan.”
“Get. Off. Me. Cruz.” Each word escaped through her teeth, but her body arched almost imperceptibly against his.
He watched her pupils dilate behind those artificial blue contacts. His thumb traced the inside of her wrist where her heartbeat raced. Something’s off. He filed the thought away.
“Almost convincing,” he said, his lips close enough that his breath stirred the damp hair at her temple. “But this—” he pressed his thumb harder against her pulse “—tells me everything.”
She jerked her wrist away, teeth flashing. “Five seconds, Cruz. That’s how long you have before I flip you on your ass for real.”
His laugh was low, genuine. “I’d like to see you try, corazón.”
“What was that?”
Joder. The voice cut through the air. Stefan’s body tensed, instinct taking over. He rolled off her in one fluid motion, creating distance between them a heartbeat before Martin Blackwell appeared at the edge of the mat.
Martin’s gaze cut past Stefan to Erika. “That was garbage. You know what I see? Another pretty face who thinks showing up is the same as showing talent. I can find a hundred of you at any open call in LA.”
Stefan went still. ?Qué diablos estás haciendo, Cruz? He rose smoothly as his hand found hers—warm, trembling slightly—and pulled her upright. Without breaking eye contact with Martin, he shifted his weight, angling his shoulder between them.
Martin’s nostrils flared. “How touching.” His lips curled into something too sharp to be a smile.
“Save the heroics for the camera, Cruz.” He leaned around Stefan, voice dropping.
“One more performance like that and I’m calling the studio.
I’m sure they’d love to hear how their leading lady can’t handle basic choreography.
” His smile thinned. “Get it together, Morgan. Or I will get it together for you.”
Behind him, Erika’s breath hitched—a sound so small only Stefan caught it. Ni de cona, cabrón.
“Actually, Martin,” Stefan said, stepping between them, “you might want to rethink that call. Replacing your female lead two days into production? After Bradley already bailed?” He let silence hang between them.
“The studio’s already nervous. You really want to explain why you can’t keep talent on set? ”
Martin’s face went red. “I don’t need casting advice from a has-been who couldn’t open a door, much less a film.”
Stefan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “And I don’t need direction from a man one harassment claim away from permanent indie obscurity.
” He leaned in, close enough that only Martin could hear his next words.
“We both know what happened on Midnight Run.” Stasia’s face flashed through his mind—mascara streaked, hands shaking.
“Do you really want me making calls tonight?”
Martin’s jaw slackened. His eyes darted left, right. The color drained from his face before flooding back crimson.
“This isn’t over,” he hissed. He jabbed a finger that stopped inches from Stefan’s chest, then spun away.
Stefan’s shoulders stayed rigid, arms locked at his sides long after Martin disappeared. Felicidades, Cruz. When he finally turned, he forced himself to breathe.
“You’re shaking,” he said, reaching toward her before stopping himself.
Erika hugged her elbows, nails digging half-moons into her skin. “I had him handled.”
“Of course you did.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s why you’re the color of chalk and breathing like you’ve run a marathon.”
She lifted her chin. “Next time, save the white knight routine for someone who wants it.”
He closed the distance between them, his attention falling to her hands where they trembled against her thighs. “Don’t you?” The question hung in the air, barely above a whisper. “A minute ago, your pulse was trying to escape through your wrist.”
Her jaw tightened. “You are an arrogant, infuriating—” The insult died on her tongue, unfinished.
“Probably.” One corner of his lips lifted, but his eyes remained serious.
“But I’m also the only person on this godforsaken island who gives a damn whether Martin gets to you.
” He stepped closer, close enough that his own sweat and salt hung between them.
“He’ll come for you if he senses weakness. I’ve seen it before.”
His voice dropped, the playfulness evaporating. “Princesa.” The word came out softer than he intended. “Whatever you think of me, stay away from Martin. He—”
“I don’t need your protection.” Her words came out brittle. He watched her square her shoulders—steel under all that designer cotton—and meet his gaze with defiance that hit him hard. When she turned on her heel, the rehearsal mat squeaked beneath her retreating form.
He watched her go. ?Qué tiene esta mujer? Nothing about her added up.
Stefan pushed off the wall, cutting through the water in long, deliberate strokes. Movement had caught his eye. At the pool’s edge, he vaulted out, water streaming down his skin.
Anneliese’s eyes flickered to him—widened, then darted away—and heat stirred in his chest. Mírala. Acting like she didn’t just check you out. The sky was going pink and gold as he snatched a towel and crossed the distance between them.
When he drew up beside her lounger, his shadow fell across her face. “It must be exhausting,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
She looked up, the blue contacts failing to disguise the flicker of vulnerability beneath. Her fingers tightened around the script pages until the edges crumpled—grip white-knuckled, nails bitten short. Anneliese Morgan, nail-biter? He noted that too.
His gaze caught on the small heart-shaped birthmark behind her right ear. Huh. Twins probably matched down to stuff like that. Photos never caught the little things. He filed it away and didn't think about it again.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The words came out without Anneliese’s trademark venom.
“Keeping up the act.” His voice fell. “The ice queen thing. It must be exhausting.”
“I don’t—” she started, then swallowed, her voice barely audible.
“Don’t you?” He tilted his head, studying her. “You know, I never got to ask—did you ever finish that tequila?”
Her brow furrowed. “What tequila?”
“The night of the Beau Monde party. You were holding court by the bar, that silver dress, telling everyone how you’d drink me under the table if I ever showed my face.” His lips curved. “I always wondered if you meant it.”
Something flickered across her face, quickly masked. “That was . . . a long time ago. I don’t remember every party.”
Mentirosa. There was no Beau Monde party. No silver dress. No challenge. He’d made the whole thing up—and the Anneliese he knew would have called him on it instantly.
He watched her throat work as she swallowed. He dragged his gaze back to her eyes.
“You know what’s strange?” He closed the distance until he could see the goosebumps rise on her arms. “I was expecting a drink in my face by now. Maybe a slap.” His mouth curved. “You just . . . blushed.”
“I—” She faltered, then squared her jaw. “I was caught off guard. It won’t happen again.”
But her voice came out soft. Almost uncertain. “You’re different than I expected, Morgan.” The words surprised him as much as her. “Softer, somehow.”
Her shoulder curved inward.
“Why do you care?” she asked. “You hate me.”
He looked away first. “Martin—he collects weaknesses,” Stefan said, voice low. “Like some men collect trophies. I’ve seen what happens when he decides someone is . . . expendable.”
She swallowed hard. “The way he looks at me. Like I’m not a person. Like I’m . . . raw material.”
Te está volviendo loco esta mujer.
“Never be alone with him,” he said, each word a stone dropping into still water. “Not for rehearsals. Not for notes. Not in his villa. Not anywhere.” His voice scraped lower. “Promise me.”
Understanding dawned across her face. She nodded once—small, genuine—and the grip in his chest released. Then she was gathering her script, fingers unsteady against the pages.
“I should go,” she said, already half-turned away.
His fingers found her wrist before he could think better of it. The contact sparked between them—her skin warm despite the evening chill, pulse jumping against his thumb.
“You know why I took this job?” He stared at the darkening horizon.
“One more flop and I’m done. Not ‘taking a break’ done.
Done done. The kind where your agent stops returning calls and your face becomes a punchline on late-night TV.
” His lips twisted, self-deprecating. “So believe me when I say—I’m not protecting you out of the goodness of my heart.
I need this film to work. And I need you .
. .” He let his gaze travel over her face, lingering. “. . . functional.”
The word landed like a dare. Mentira. She stared at the horizon, saying nothing.
“Functional.” She let out a breath that might have been a laugh. “That’s what you’re going with.”
“Take it or leave it, Princesa.”
She looked at him—unguarded for a heartbeat, then shuttered. “I should go.” She straightened, the wall going back up. “Try not to drown yourself, Cruz.”
Stefan watched her retreat. He ran a hand through his hair.
There’s something about you, Morgan. Nothing about her matched the woman he thought he knew. She was undoing him.