18. Stefan
STEFAN
The craft services tent buzzed with the low hum of exhausted crew members fueling up before another day under Martin’s reign. Stefan leaned against a table near the coffee station, third espresso in hand, watching the entrance.
She appeared a few minutes later. Coffee cup gripped tight, shoulders set, scanning the tent like she expected an ambush.
He fell into step beside her before she could disappear again. “Still breathing. Impressive.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” Her chin lifted, but a muscle jumped in her throat.
“After twenty minutes in that tent with Martin?” He kept his voice low. “I had money on a body bag.”
Her eyes cut to his. “You were watching.”
“I was waiting. There’s a difference.” He held her gaze. “Did he touch you?”
The question landed. She blinked.
“No.”
“Bien.” He exhaled, ran a hand through his hair. “Look—showing up at your door the other night. That was . . .”
“Presumptuous? Invasive? Wildly inappropriate?”
“I was going to say ‘a bad call,’ but sure. All of those.” He extended his hand, palm up. “Clean slate. Borrón y cuenta nueva.”
She looked at his hand, then back at his face. Searching for the trap.
“Fine.” She didn’t take it. “But you stay on your side of the camera.” She stepped back. “And out of my orbit.”
He withdrew slowly, eyes never leaving hers. The corner of his mouth lifted. “No te preocupes, Princesa.”
She walked away before she could second-guess herself.
The AD’s voice cut through moments later: “Places, everyone!”
A simple walk-and-talk along the beach. But by take seven, Martin was in rare form. Chair slamming. Coffee cup crushed in his fist. PAs scattering.
“Cut! Jesus Christ!” His voice sent seagulls wheeling. “Luna just found out Jake lied to her face. When you say ‘I can’t trust you anymore,’ I need to believe he gutted you. Make me feel it, Morgan!”
Stefan’s shoulders had locked up from clenching. And in Erika’s eyes, tears gathered at the edge of stubborn pride.
“Let’s take five,” Stefan said, cutting through Martin’s tirade.
Martin’s head snapped up. “I call the breaks here, Cruz.” His finger jabbed the air. “Not you. Never you.”
Stefan didn’t flinch. “And yet.” He turned toward the golf cart.
“You walk away from me, and you’re done.” Martin’s voice pitched higher, cracking at the edges. “I’ll make sure you never work on a major lot again.”
Stefan pivoted back, shoulders squared. “You’ve been making that threat for fifteen years. Still waiting.”
Martin’s face went purple. He turned on Erika instead. “And YOU. Standing there while your guard dog does the barking. You think that face makes you untouchable? You’re a placeholder. A warm body with a follower count. I can replace you before lunch.”
Stefan shifted beside her, ready to step in again.
But something cracked in her face. Something that had been building since the soup he’d brought to her door. Since he’d looked at her like she was worth defending.
“No.”
Both men went still.
She stepped forward, holding Martin’s gaze. “We’re done for today. Not because he says so.” She nodded toward Stefan. “Because I do.”
The silence swallowed everything. Madre mía. She pivoted and walked away, each footprint deliberate.
Stefan caught up to her at the catering tent. She turned. Her chin was up. Defiant. But her hands were balled into fists at her sides, knuckles white.
“Joder.” He was grinning. He couldn’t help it. “That was the best thing I’ve seen all week.”
“I’m dead.” She wasn’t whispering—she was barely breathing. “I’m actually dead. Martin is going to bury me under the craft services table.”
“You’re spiraling.” He stepped closer. “Breathe.”
“Don’t tell me to breathe—”
“Then let me get you out of here.” He nodded toward the golf cart behind the tent, keys dangling in the ignition.
She glanced back at the chaos of the set. “We can’t just—”
He was already pulling her toward it. “Watch me.”
The engine sputtered to life. Tires spat sand as the shouting shrank behind them.
The path curved through dense palms until it opened to water so blue it hurt. He parked at the edge of pristine sand.
Stefan yanked off his shoes and waded in, not caring that his pants were soaked through. He turned to find her still on the shore, arms crossed, watching him.
“What are you doing?”
“Washing the day off.” He met her gaze. “You should try it.”
“I’m not taking my clothes off.”
He held out his hand, palm up. “Who said anything about clothes? Though I wouldn’t complain.”
She stared at his outstretched hand. Her expression shifted. A decision was made. She kicked off her shoes and waded toward him, stopping just out of reach.
“If you splash me, I will end you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He grinned. “Need a hand?”
She rolled her eyes but took it. The moment her fingers closed around his, he tugged, not hard, just enough to pull her off balance. She stumbled into him with a gasp, hands flying to his shoulders.
“Stefan!”
“Sorry.” He wasn’t. “Current’s stronger than it looks.”
“There’s no current.” But her fingers were still digging into his shoulders. She hadn’t pulled away.
“Must be my imagination.” He steadied her, hands light at her waist, giving her room to step back if she wanted.
She shoved him instead. Water exploded between them, catching the dying light in a thousand droplets.
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.” He grinned, salt water dripping from his jaw. “Feel better?”
She answered by slapping a wave directly into his face.
He wiped his eyes, slow and deliberate. The cove had gone quiet. Just the lap of water against rock and the distant cry of gulls. “Vale. That’s how it is.”
She was already moving, circling him with a look he’d never seen on Anneliese Morgan’s face, unguarded, almost reckless. Water swirled around her waist, catching the gold of the sinking sun. He lunged; she dodged, quicker than he expected.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said.
“I’m tolerating it.” But the grin that cracked through her scowl said otherwise.
He feinted left, watching her weight shift. She didn’t fall for it—and sent a wave crashing into his chest before he could recover. The wave hit his skin. Warm and startling.
“Beginner’s luck,” he sputtered.
“Keep telling yourself that.”
Their laughter rang across the empty cove, tangling with the sound of the waves.
The sun was sinking lower now, painting the water gold, and for a moment, Martin didn’t exist. Nothing existed except the way she looked at him, breathless, unguarded, real.
Wet hair plastered to her cheeks. Eyes bright with something that looked like joy.
He moved faster this time. His hands found her waist before she could twist away. Warm skin beneath cool water. She grabbed his shoulders, both of them grinning, chests heaving. Droplets clung to her lashes.
“Caught you.”
“You got lucky.”
The laughter faded. The space between them shrank. She searched his face, uncertain. The water lapped gently at their ribs.
He swept her legs out before either of them could think too hard about it.
She came up gasping, salt water streaming down her face. She shoved at his chest, sputtering.
“You—you absolute—”
“Careful.” He was grinning. “That’s a Temmy nominee you’re insulting.”
“I’m going to kill you.” But she was laughing, really laughing, and the sound undid him.
The laughter faded. They were still too close, her hands braced against his chest, his arms loosely circling her waist beneath the water. The setting sun turned her skin to gold.
“I keep waiting for someone to figure it out,” she said, almost to herself.
He went still. “Figure out what?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“Look at me.” She didn’t. “You’re not failing because you can’t act. You’re failing because you’re overthinking.” He closed the distance. “Martin’s in your head. You’re so worried about being perfect that you’re not letting yourself breathe.”
A tear escaped down her salt-stained cheek, mixing with the sea water.
“You’re not a bad actress,” he said. “You just need to stop fighting yourself.”
The waves rocked them gently, pulling them closer with each swell. Her hands were still on his chest. She hadn’t pushed him away.
He leaned in slowly. His gaze dropped to her mouth, salt-kissed, slightly parted. Her breath caught. He heard it. Her eyes closed. He wanted to taste her.
His forehead touched hers. Her heartbeat thrummed against him. What are you doing, Cruz? She’s just an influencer, Cruz.
He pulled back. Water rushed between them, and the absence of her warmth was sudden, jarring.
Something didn’t add up. He couldn’t name it—didn’t want to—but it was there. A wrongness. Or maybe a rightness that made even less sense.
But then she looked at him—vulnerable, unguarded—and the questions dissolved into static.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said. “Not even close.”
She went still. “Is that a good thing?”
He didn’t answer. Wasn’t sure he could.
He forced himself to step away. Not because of the truce. Not because she was supposed to be his enemy. But because the woman in front of him had no idea he’d just figured out her secret—and he needed time to decide what to do about it.
“We should—” He stopped. Tried again. “Martin will send a search party.”
“Can’t have that.” Her eyes were still on his. But she didn’t move. Neither did he.
The sun had set by the time he drove the golf cart back to her villa. The path was dark, headlights cutting weak beams through the humidity. She sat close enough that her shoulder brushed his with every turn. He kept his eyes on the road. Mostly.
He stopped at her door. The engine idled. Neither of them reached for the handle.
She climbed out, then hesitated. “Today was . . .”
“A disaster?”
“I was going to say unexpected.” A small smile. “But sure. Disaster works.”
“Morgan.” She turned. “You did good out there.”
Her expression shifted. Softened. For a moment, he thought she might say something else. Instead, she held his gaze a beat too long, then slipped inside.
He sat there longer than he should have. The night settled around him. Waves, wind, the faint hum of the resort in the distance. He exhaled. Reached for the ignition.
Twin beams of light sliced through the darkness as Martin’s golf cart skidded to a halt, blocking his path.
“Quite the detour, Cruz.” Martin left his headlights on, casting Stefan in their glare. “Studio called. Wanted to know why we’re burning fifty grand an hour, falling behind schedule.”
Stefan turned off his engine. “She needed air.”
“What she needs is to remember she’s replaceable.” Martin stepped forward. “And what you need is to remember who made you.”
Stefan unfolded from his seat, using every inch of his height. “You will never speak to her like that again.” Each word landed deliberately. “You will treat her with respect.”
Martin laughed—a dry rattle. “Or what?”
“Or I make one call.” Stefan moved into his space, forcing Martin to lean back. “And we both know whose career ends first.”
The color drained from Martin’s face.