15. Erika
ERIKA
Erika white-knuckled her script as the golf cart bounced along the path. She hadn’t even made it to set yet, and she was already a wreck.
She tried to focus on the dialogue block in front of her—but the lines blurred with each lurch of the cart.
“Hang on!” the driver barked, swerving to avoid a lighting tech crouched over a tangle of extension cords. The cart’s back wheel clipped the man’s duffel bag, scattering gaffer tape and Advil into the dirt. Erika winced.
Her stomach lurched—not from the ride.
She couldn’t stop seeing it.
Dawn. The beach empty except for the waves. She’d been walking off her insomnia when she rounded a cluster of palms and froze.
Stefan, waist-deep in the surf. Rising.
Water streamed down his chest, caught the pink light, carved shadows along muscle. The kind of body she would have itched to sketch once, back when she still let herself want things. He waded toward shore, oblivious, and she stood rooted to the sand like an idiot.
Then he turned. All the way.
Uncut. And . . . God.
She’d ducked behind the nearest tree so fast she scraped her elbow on the bark, ears ringing. Pressed her back against the trunk, not breathing, certain he must have seen her. When she finally risked another look, he was walking up the beach, towel slung low on his hips.
Hours later, her skin still prickled. Her hands wouldn’t stay still. And pretending to hate him was getting harder by the hour.
Anneliese would never forgive her. She wasn’t sure she’d forgive herself.
“Costume department, Miss Morgan,” the driver announced, jolting her back to reality as they skidded to a stop before a massive white tent.
“There you are!” Lily’s voice cut through the din as she wove between costume racks. Her smile vanished when she reached Erika. “Jesus. You look like death in couture.” She pressed a cool palm to Erika’s forehead. “Scale of one to ten—how close are we to losing your breakfast?”
“Six. Maybe seven.”
“Then we’re not moving until you’re a four.” Lily gripped her elbow, steering her behind a partition of hanging gowns. “Breathe. What happened?”
Erika shook her head. The image of Stefan’s naked body flashed behind her eyelids, and the word escaped before she could stop it. “Stefan,” she whispered.
“What about him?” Lily’s hands stilled on the fabric. Something in Erika’s face must have given her away. “Oh no. What happened?”
“Nothing happened.” Too fast. “I just—I saw him this morning. At the beach.”
Lily’s eyebrows climbed slowly. “The sunrise swim.”
Erika focused very hard on a sequin that didn’t need adjusting.
“The sunrise swim where he doesn’t wear—”
“Yes. That one.”
Lily set down her scissors. “And you just happened to be there.”
“I couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk. It’s not like I planned to see—” Erika’s hand fluttered uselessly. “All of that.”
“All of that.” Lily was enjoying this far too much. She leaned back in her chair, arms folded, studying Erika like she was a particularly interesting pattern to cut. “So the rumors are true? About his . . . generosity?”
“I hate you.”
“That’s not a no.” Lily’s laugh was throaty. She reached over and pinched Erika’s cheek. “Dios mío, the look on your face right now. You’re the color of my tita’s sangria.”
Erika swatted her hand away. “Can we please—”
“No, we cannot.” Lily was already reaching for her phone. “Because while you were getting an eyeful of Stefan Cruz at dawn, Page Eight was doing what Page Eight does.”
She thrust the screen at Erika. The headline hit like ice water:
FRENEMIES WITH BENEFITS? CRUZ AND MORGAN HEAT UP THE BAHAMAS
Erika’s throat closed. The photo beneath it was grainy but unmistakable—her and Stefan on the practice mat, his body pinning hers, their faces inches apart.
“‘One minute they look ready to kill each other,’” Lily read, clearly savoring every word, “‘the next it looks like they’re about to kiss.’” She peered over the phone, eyebrows raised. “Accurate?”
“I’m going to be sick.”
“That’s also not a no.”
She imagined Anneliese’s reaction—not anger, but that wounded look of betrayal. The same expression she’d worn when #AnnieIsOverParty trended for three days straight.
“This is ridiculous,” Erika groaned. “It was hardly steamy, we were just in fight training, and things got a little . . . physical.”
“A little physical?” Lily arched an eyebrow, plucking the phone back from Erika’s numb fingers. “Honey, I saw you two. He had you pinned against that training mat for a solid thirty seconds. The entire grip department stopped what they were doing to watch.”
“That was—he tripped me!” Erika’s hands flew to straighten a sequined gown that didn’t need straightening. “It was a simple mishap during the scene where Jake captures Luna.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Lily’s knowing smirk made Erika want to disappear into the costume rack. “And I suppose his hand lingering on your hip was also strictly professional?”
“That was acting!” Erika’s voice cracked. “We were following the script!”
“Were you?” Lily’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Because I’ve read that script. It doesn’t say ‘stare into each other’s eyes for ten seconds after the director calls cut.’”
“I was just . . . observing. For character research.”
Lily snorted. “Look, I’ve been in this business long enough to know chemistry when I see it. And honey, what you two have is nuclear.”
“Annie will think I’m sabotaging her,” Erika whispered. “And Lily—something’s off with Stefan. The way he looks at me, like he’s solving a puzzle. Asking questions Anneliese should know the answers to. Then yesterday, he stepped between Martin and me. Why would he do that?”
“Your sister’s arch-nemesis is playing twenty questions and bodyguard? That’s not the behavior of a man sharpening his knife.”
“Maybe he’s just waiting for the perfect moment to humiliate me,” Erika whispered, tugging at a loose thread on her sleeve.
“Or maybe . . .” Lily’s scarlet lips parted in a slow, delicious grin. “He sees something your sister never let him see.” She plucked a gauzy white sundress from the rack and pressed it into Erika’s unsteady grip. “Here. This is for the beach confrontation scene—you know, where Jake betrays Luna.”
“Speak of the devil,” Lily said, eyes flicking over Erika’s shoulder.
Erika turned. Stefan was leaning against a costume rack, arms crossed. Something in his expression said he’d heard more than he should.
“Ladies.” His voice was warm, unhurried. “Am I interrupting?”
“Just girl talk,” Lily said, already backing toward a rack of sequined gowns. “I’ll let you two . . . prepare.” She shot Erika a look and disappeared.
Stefan pushed off the rack and closed the distance between them, close enough that she caught sandalwood, gin, and something briny.
“Recovered from yesterday’s tumble?” His mouth curved. “You hit that mat pretty hard.”
“I was fine.” She gripped the sundress. “You’re the one who tripped me.”
“Mmm.” He didn’t argue, just let his gaze drift over her face. “You’re up early. I saw you on the beach this morning. Sunrise. Palm tree.” One eyebrow lifted. “Looked like you were enjoying the view.”
Everything in her wanted to flee. “I couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk.”
“Scenic route.” His smile widened. Slow. “I don’t blame you. The light was beautiful.”
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. Her gaze dropped to his mouth before she could stop it—full lips, the ghost of stubble along his jaw. “For the record, Princesa—if you wanted a private showing, all you had to do was ask. I don’t bite.” A pause. “Hard.”
Then he was gone, strolling out of the tent like he hadn’t just unraveled her completely. Erika stood frozen, the sundress clutched to her body, her breath fast.
Lily’s head popped around a garment rack. “You okay, honey? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I need air,” Erika whispered.
Before she could escape, Martin’s voice boomed across the set. “Let’s move, people! On the first day of principal photography, we’re already behind schedule. Burning daylight!”
Oh, God. Six more weeks of this. Erika clutched the sundress tighter and prayed she’d survive.
Erika’s finger hovered over the call button for a full minute. She couldn’t do it. But before she could retreat, the phone in her hand started buzzing.
The screen lit up: Anneliese.
Water dripped from Erika’s hair onto the plush white sofa as she swiped to answer. “Hey,” she whispered.
“Erika.” Her sister’s voice cut through pleasantries. “Did you see it? That Page Eight piece? The photos of you and Stefan?”
Erika’s throat tightened. “Yeah,” she said, digging her toes into the carpet. “I saw.”
Anneliese exhaled, a sharp hiss. “What exactly happened? Did he touch you?”
“No,” Erika said, tightening her grip on the phone. “Nothing like that. The photos just caught a weird moment.”
The line fell so quiet that Erika checked whether the call had dropped.
“You’re lying,” Anneliese’s voice dropped to that dangerous whisper. “I know his games, Erika.”
A pause. When Anneliese spoke again, her tone had shifted. “Actually . . . this could work for us.”
“What?”
“The tabloids are eating up the tension between you two. Olivia thinks we should lean in. Post something on my stories tonight. Nothing crazy—just a shot of you looking annoyed on set. Caption it ‘some people make work SO hard.’ Let them speculate.”
Erika’s stomach turned. “Annie, I don’t think—”
“You don’t have to think. That’s what Olivia’s for.” Anneliese’s voice hardened. “This is how the game works, Eri. Stefan knows it. Now you need to learn it too.”
“I’ll figure something out,” Erika said, which wasn’t a yes but wasn’t a no either.
“Tonight,” Anneliese pressed. “Promise me.”
“I have to go, Annie. Wardrobe is going to have my head if I’m late for the pre-dawn call.” Erika stared at the sunset bleeding orange across the water. The guilt of lying to the one person who knew her best sat in her throat.
She changed course. “How’s the leg?”
“Healing,” Anneliese said, clipped, the sharpness in her voice a clear sign she wasn’t fooled by the subject change. “So. How was set?”
Erika’s throat tightened. “I blanked. Completely froze in the middle of a scene. And Martin—” She swallowed hard. “He tore me apart. In front of everyone.”
Silence. Then, “That absolute bastard.” Anneliese’s voice sharpened. “I told Olivia he was unstable. I told her this would happen.”
“It’s over now. I got through it.”
“Got through it how? What did you do?”
“I just . . . kept going. Finished the scene.” Erika picked at a loose thread until it unraveled. “Stefan helped. A little.”
“Stefan.” The name landed cold. “Be careful with that one, Bean. He’s not your friend.”
Erika pressed her forehead against the window. On the horizon, the sun melted into the ocean.
“I should go,” she said. “Early call tomorrow.”
“Wait.” Anneliese’s voice dropped. “You’re not going to bail on me, right? I know it’s hard. I know Martin’s a nightmare. But you promised.”
The glass fogged beneath her breath. “I’m not quitting.”
“Good girl.” The brightness snapped back. “Now get some sleep. And moisturize—the salt air is murder on pores.”
Erika hung up the phone. The first tear slid hot down her cheek, then another, until her shoulders shook. No one to hear. No one who’d care.
A knock—three precise taps—cut through her misery. She froze, heart slamming. Please not Martin. She swiped at her face with the heel of her hand. She crossed to the door and pressed one eye to the peephole.
The fish-eye lens distorted his features, but there was no mistaking that jawline, those shoulders.
Stefan Cruz stood on her doorstep, his hair damp and curling at the edges, one hand braced against the doorframe. In his other hand, a white container tilted precariously, steam escaping from beneath the lid.
He’s the enemy, she reminded herself. But her hand was already reaching for the door handle.