17. Erika
ERIKA
Steam. Salt air. The rush of water against tile. Through the bamboo slats of his outdoor shower, Stefan stood with his back to her, moonlight and water painting silver rivers down his skin. Her body went tight.
His other hand slid down his stomach, following the trail of dark hair below his navel.
Her breath stopped. His fingers wrapped around himself—thick, flushed, already hard.
A groan rumbled from his chest, and her thighs pressed together.
His head fell back, hips rocking forward into his grip.
Slow. Deliberate. The muscles in his forearm flexed with each stroke.
“Princesa.” The word fell from his lips, rough and broken. Wanting. The sound shot straight between her legs.
His head turned. Water dripped from his jaw as his eyes found hers through the slats. Dark. Hungry. He didn’t stop. His hand moved slower as he watched her watch him.
“See something you like, Princesa?” His voice was rough, that accent thickening the way it did when he was angry—or aroused. His lips curved, one corner lifting in an amused smile. “Don’t run.”
He turned to face her fully, letting her see all of him—the water streaming down his chest, the flex of his abs, his hand still working himself in long, slow strokes. His eyes never left hers.
“Come here.” A command, not a question. And against every instinct, she wanted to obey.
Her phone buzzed. The dream broke.
Erika’s eyes flew open. Her hand was already between her legs, fingers slick, pressing against the ache that pulsed there. No. She jerked her hand away as if it burned, wiping her fingers on the sheet with a shaky breath.
“Fuck,” she whispered to the empty room. The ceiling fan turned above her. She curled onto her side, hating how her body still pulsed with want.
The phone buzzed again, screen lighting up the darkness.
Annie Banana:
Babe. The story.
Annie Banana:
Some people make work SO hard —we talked about this
Annie Banana:
My engagement is flatlining while you’re living my life. The least you can do is keep my grid breathing.
She stared at the messages, her sister’s demands blurring as the dream clung to her like humidity. Stefan’s voice still echoed in her skull. The way he’d said that stupid nickname—not mocking, not teasing.
She set the phone face down on the nightstand and pressed her palms against her eyes until she saw stars.
She hadn’t posted it. She couldn’t. Not after the soup. Not after the way he’d looked at her—really looked, like she was more than a headline.
The phone buzzed again. She didn’t look.
She showered in water cold enough to punish, dressed in whatever her hands touched first, and made it to the costume tent before she could change her mind about this slow-motion disaster.
Inside, Lily was arranging a rack of outfits. The designer glanced up, hands freezing mid-motion.
“Jesus, you look like you lost a fight with your own pillow.” Lily pressed a steaming paper cup into Erika’s hands. “Drink. Triple shot.”
Erika’s fingers curled around the warmth. “Is there whiskey in it?”
“Not at eight in the morning, but I could make an exception.” Lily tilted her head. “That bad?”
“Stefan Cruz is waiting on set,” Erika whispered. “And Martin’s already shouting for blood.”
Lily leaned in, voice dropping. “Speaking of Cruz—Mia from makeup said his golf cart was parked outside your villa past midnight.”
The dream flashed behind her eyes—steam, water, his hand. She shoved it down. “He brought soup.”
“Soup,” Lily repeated. “Men like Stefan Cruz don’t deliver soup unless—”
“It’s not like that,” Erika interrupted. “He was just . . . checking on me.”
Lily’s smile sharpened. “Honey, Stefan Cruz doesn’t ‘just check’ on anyone.”
“He hates my sister.” The words came out before Erika could stop them.
Lily stilled. “That feud? It’s industry nonsense.
Press fodder.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle.
“Six years ago, Renegade Dawn. I was just starting out. Stefan brought me coffee every morning at five. Remembered how I took it. When the producer tried to cut corners on materials, Stefan threatened to walk.” Her eyes met Erika’s.
“For costumes. The tabloids don’t print that part. ”
“So he’s . . . not what they say.” She heard the hope in her own voice.
“He’s complicated. But he’s not cruel.” Lily lowered her voice. “And I’ve dressed a lot of his costars. I know what a professional looks like.” She tilted her head. “The way he looks at you isn’t professional.”
Heat crept up Erika’s neck.
“Maybe,” Lily said, turning back to her sketches, “you shouldn’t feel so guilty about looking back.”
Tomorrow’s call sheet sat between them on the makeup counter: the cliff scene. Luna suspended over the water while Jake confesses everything. Erika had read it three times and still felt sick.
Her fingers twisted in the hem of her top. Lily caught the movement and squeezed her shoulder.
“When it all goes sideways—and honey, it will—find me. One snip to that ridiculous harness Martin insists on, and we’ll have an hour-long safety inspection. Buy you a breather without anyone being the wiser.”
A genuine smile broke through Erika’s anxiety. “You’d risk your job for me?”
“I’d risk a lot more than that.” Lily winked, turning back to her sketches. “Now go. Try to look like you’re enjoying paradise instead of serving time in it.”
The morning shoot was a disaster. Three takes of the beach confrontation, each worse than the last. Martin’s voice rang in her skull: “Again! What part of ‘hatred’ don’t you understand?
” By lunch, the crew had stopped making eye contact.
By afternoon, the makeup artist had reapplied her foundation twice, sweat streaking it down her temples.
Now the sun hung low and orange over the water, and Martin had called everyone to the beach.
“All right, everyone, gather ‘round.” Martin’s voice cut across the orange glow of sunset. He stood dark against the water, clipboard clutched to his chest. The crew shuffled into a half-circle. Twelve hours of filming. One usable scene.
“Let’s not pretend today wasn’t a disaster.” His gaze swept across faces suddenly fascinated by their shoes before settling on Erika. “I don’t know what this soap opera is between you and Stefan, but it’s killing my movie.”
Her chin dropped as a dozen pairs of eyes flicked toward her, then away. “Figure it out,” Martin said, stepping closer. “I’m paying you to be an actress. So start acting.”
“Yes, sir,” Erika said, barely audible over the waves.
The crew scattered. Martin called after them: “Anneliese. My office. Now.” The canvas tent flap slapped closed behind him.
Erika’s mouth went dry.
“Anneliese.” Stefan stepped up beside her, close enough that his breath warmed her ear. His fingers brushed her wrist—barely there, gone in an instant. When she met his eyes, his jaw was tight. He shook his head once. Don’t go in there alone.
The silhouette of Martin paced behind the tent walls, a shark in shallow water. Anneliese would march straight in, chin high. Erika wanted to bolt down the beach until her lungs burned.
She straightened her spine and gave Stefan a dismissive flick of her fingers. The tent canvas rasped against her shoulder as she stepped through. Martin sprawled in his director’s chair.
“That was a fucking catastrophe.” His voice was almost gentle.
Erika stood in the center of the tent, arms at her sides. Nowhere to sit or hide.
“The investors are watching every frame we shoot.” Martin leaned forward. “When they get nervous, they start hunting for heads.”
Erika’s vision tunneled to pinprick, the tent’s canvas walls swimming.
“I don’t care what’s going on with you and Cruz.” Martin rose from his chair. One step toward her. Two. “I care about what’s happening on my screen.”
He circled behind her. The air shifted.
“You know why I fought for you, Anneliese? That scene in Midnight in Malibu. The one where you slapped your costar?” He stopped beside her, near enough to catch the scent of his cologne—cedar and something medicinal. “Your eyes burned. But fire without control is just destruction.”
Erika’s hands clenched, nails biting crescents.
Martin moved in front of her, palms flat on the desk behind her, boxing her in.
His aftershave couldn’t mask the coffee-sour smell of his breath.
“The studio has a list. Five names. All of them hungry. All of them ready to fly in tonight.” His lips curled.
“You want to stay in this picture? Show me you’re worth the trouble. ”
Her stomach turned. She knew what worth the trouble meant in his mouth.
“I’ll give you a better performance.” She kept her voice flat. “That’s what I can offer.”
Something flickered across his face—disappointment, maybe. Or just recalibration. He straightened, tugging his cuffs. “Tomorrow. First take. You make me believe it, or I make that call.”
“Understood.”
He stepped back and the air rushed into her lungs. So the real problem wasn’t going to be Stefan. It would be surviving Martin Blackwell.