19. Erika
ERIKA
Of all the ways Erika had imagined blowing her cover, death by jet ski hadn’t made the list.
The set faded to background noise—Martin’s voice, the drone of camera boats, someone shouting about light meters. None of it mattered. Only the machine bobbing in the shallows.
“You look like you’re about to face a firing squad,” Lily said, appearing beside her with a wetsuit.
“Worse.” Erika gripped the handlebars. “I’m about to get on this thing.”
“You’ve ridden one before, right?” Lily asked, eyebrows lifting.
“Once. At summer camp when I was fourteen.” Erika swallowed hard. “I mostly just went in circles and fell off.”
Lily let out a short, sympathetic laugh. “Well, try not to do that today. Martin is already on the warpath.” She handed Erika the wetsuit. “Wardrobe wants this under your costume. Keeps you warm when you inevitably end up in the water.”
“Hey.” Lily stepped closer, blocking the crew’s view of Erika’s trembling hands.
“Remember how Jax made that stuntman practice the same fall seventeen times yesterday? Nobody gets on that water without his approval.” She tapped Erika’s collarbone with two fingers.
“And this right here? Pure steel underneath. Your sister picked the right twin for this.”
Erika’s mouth twitched upward. “Debatable.” But the knot in her chest loosened. “Thanks, Lily.”
Stefan stood with his back to her, gesturing to Jax. Shirtless, his shoulders caught the sunlight, muscle shifting beneath. Burnt sienna and raw umber, she thought, the old artist’s instinct surfacing unbidden. He turned suddenly, his gaze finding hers.
His chin dipped, that small movement meant only for her.
She changed. Emerged in the wetsuit. Yesterday’s almost-kiss—his forehead against hers, the way he’d pulled back like she was something dangerous. She shoved the memory down.
Hands appeared—a PA fitting her earpiece, adjusting her life vest. “Arms up.” The straps cinched tight against her ribs.
Stefan stepped up beside her. “Just follow my lead out there,” he said, voice rough at the edges. “Don’t worry about the camera boats. Don’t worry about Martin. Just focus on me.”
Her fingers tightened on the life vest straps. When she looked up, his eyes were steady. She nodded.
Stefan’s mouth curved. “Race you to the second buoy. The loser buys drinks tonight.”
“You’re on.”
“Ready to get smoked, Morgan?” Stefan’s voice cut through the salt air. He walked toward his jet ski, yanking his wetsuit over his shoulders.
“In your dreams, Cruz.” The handlebars bit into her palms. “Try not to cry when you eat my wake.”
A thin strip of beach separated the water from the chaos of the set. Martin stalked the shoreline, barking orders.
Erika’s earpiece crackled to life with Martin’s voice: “Positions! Camera boats ready! Let’s keep the budget underwater, not the talent.”
“Rolling in three! Two! One! ACTION!” Martin’s voice cracked across the beach.
She jammed her thumb against the starter. The jet ski jolted, surging forward so violently that she almost lost her balance. Within seconds, she was slicing across the water, salt spray stinging her lips and eyes, each bounce over the waves jarring her teeth.
Stefan shot ahead, immediately taking the inside curve around the marker buoy. He was a show-off, leaning into the turns with one hand, waving to the camera drone as if it were a personal paparazzi. The wake he left behind was a wall of white, crashing into Erika’s chest.
“That’s all you’ve got, Morgan?” Stefan’s voice came over the earpiece.
“Keep talking. More air for me when you’re underwater.”
She cut across his path with a ruthless swerve, spraying a fan of white water directly into his face. The force of it knocked his sunglasses off, sending them arcing into the ocean with a very satisfying plunk.
“Those cost more than your car!” Stefan laughed.
“Bill me!” She maxed the throttle. The gap vanished. She was right next to him.
“You’re enjoying this,” he called over.
“Terrified, actually.” She wasn’t. Not anymore.
They circled the buoys, the gap closing with every hairpin turn. The finish line was a floating dock in the distance. Erika dug in, willing her machine to go a little faster.
“Last chance to back off,” she shouted over the spray and the wind.
Stefan’s reply came low. “Not a chance, Princesa.”
A sickening metallic rattle shuddered through the engine. The jet ski coughed, stuttered, and all at once the power drained away. The engine died, and then she was adrift, the hull rocking on the water.
She tried the starter but the only response was a feeble click and the acrid smell of burnt metal. Stefan was already a hundred yards ahead, surging toward the finish line, oblivious.
“Martin, my jet ski died!” she yelled into her earpiece. “It’s not working!”
Martin’s furious voice crackled back. “Goddammit, Morgan! The rescue boat’s across the bay. Stay put.” The comm clicked off.
Stay put. As if she had anywhere else to go.
Another engine approached—Stefan’s jet ski slowed, water churning white around its hull as he pulled alongside her.
“You hurt?” he called over the waves.
“No. It died,” she said, knuckles white on the handlebars.
Stefan glanced back at the camera boats—specks on the horizon—then tapped his dead comm. “Current’s strong. We need to double up.” He extended his hand, palm up. “Come over to mine.”
Her gaze dropped to the gap between their watercraft. “That’s at least three feet.”
“I’ve made worse jumps.” His palm stayed steady. “Trust me, Morgan.”
“Famous last words.”
Hesitantly, she reached out. His palm swallowed hers.
She swung her leg over, but a wave slammed the jet skis together.
She pitched forward. His arm locked around her waist, steadying her against his chest. Salt water dripped from her hair onto his forearm.
The thin wetsuit did nothing to mask the heat of his body against hers.
“Look at the horizon,” he said, lips close enough to her ear. “Pick a point and hold it.”
“I’m breathing.”
“You’re not.”
He settled her in front of him, reaching around to grip the handlebars. Each breath he took expanded his chest against her shoulder blades. He cleared his throat. “Hold on.” His thumb pressed the throttle. The engine coughed once, twice, then died with a hollow click.
“Joder.” He tried again. Nothing.
Erika scanned the horizon. Empty water in every direction. The sun hung lower now, painting the waves in amber and rose. No boats. No land. Just two dead jet skis bobbing in the current.
“Please tell me you have a backup plan.”
“Working on it,” Stefan said.
She couldn’t form words. He breathed against her back, slow and unsteady. His forearms brushed her ribs with every inhale. Salt and sunscreen filled her nostrils—and underneath, the sandalwood that was now familiar.
Another wave rocked them. Her hips shifted back, pressing against something unmistakably, undeniably him.
Oh, God. Her face burned. The panic of being stranded evaporated, replaced by a far more intimate crisis. She fixed her gaze on the horizon, acutely aware of how alone they were, how his breath had gone shallow, how she was suddenly aware of every inch of skin.
She tried to shift forward, create space. The movement only made things worse. His breath caught, a small, strangled sound that hit her low and slow.
“Sorry—I didn’t—”
“Dios.” The word was strangled. “Just—don’t move for a second.”
She didn’t move. But God help her, part of her wanted to. Wanted to turn around and find out what would happen if she stopped pretending this was only proximity and adrenaline.
Great. Stranded in the ocean with a malfunctioning jet ski and a functioning erection. This day just keeps giving.
The swell shifted them closer. Her pulse hammered everywhere. Throat. Ears. Between her legs.
“We should—” Stefan’s voice cracked. “We should signal for help.”
“Already radioed Martin.” She forced a cough to disguise how her voice had climbed an octave. “Boat’s across the bay.”
“Fucking Martin.” The curse vibrated through him and into her spine.
He tried to move away. It only pressed his thighs more firmly against hers. His laugh vibrated through her, low.
“Sorry,” he said, lips near her ear, his breath stirring her hair. “Biology’s a bitch.”
The words unstuck her throat. “For someone with a garage full of Lamborghinis, you have shit luck with engines.”
His surprised laugh jolted her against him. “Touché. Maybe you’re my mechanical kryptonite.”
“So this is my fault?” She twisted to face him, their noses inches apart. “I’m not the one whose million-dollar prop just died in the middle of nowhere.”
“It was purring like a kitten until you climbed aboard.” His eyes caught the setting sun, turning them to amber. “You short-circuit things, Morgan.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Machinery included.”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“Hey.” The word vibrated through him and into her spine. “Look at me.”
She pivoted slowly. His face eclipsed the horizon, close enough that his breath warmed her lips. Gold flecks held the last light in his irises. Her gaze dropped to his mouth—for the space of a heartbeat—before snapping back up.
“The rescue boat will come,” he said quietly.
“When?” she whispered. “The sun’s almost down.”
He lifted a hand and brushed a salt-crusted strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered. His thumb traced her jawline before he pulled back.
She turned away, face flushed.
A beam of light sliced through the darkness. She jerked upright, arm raised mid-wave before the boat veered away, its wake spreading silver across the black water. A chill crept across her skin as the light faded.
He unclipped his life jacket and settled it across her shoulders. The fabric smelled of sandalwood and salt, still warm from his body. His thumbs brushed the hollow beneath her collarbones as he adjusted the clasp.
“Stefan, you need—”
“I need you to stop arguing.”
But the tears started anyway, hot and frustrated. “What does it matter? The studio’s going to pull the budget, and shut down this film by next week. And it’ll be my fault.”
His jaw tightened. “Martin went after you yesterday in front of everyone. I saw your face when he called you replaceable.
She dropped her gaze. “Hey.” His voice was soft. “Stay with me.”
She turned back. His thumb brushed away a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen.
“Did he threaten you?”
“He didn’t have to.” The jet ski rocked beneath them. “He showed me the dailies. Said my performance was ‘concerning the investors.’ Mentioned how many actresses would kill for this role.” Her words caught. “The studio needs a scapegoat. Martin’s making sure it’s me.”
“That’s bullshit. Your dailies were solid.” His fingers tightened on her shoulder. “Martin’s playing mind games. He did the same thing to Eliza Chen on Blackwater.”
“Yeah, well.” She hugged her knees to her chest. “What if he’s right? What if I’m not—” She stopped herself. Not who everyone thinks I am. “What if I can’t do this?”
The quiet of sunset had settled across the bay, broken only by the slap of waves.
“Can I ask you something?” Stefan shifted behind her.
“Depends on the question.”
“Why do you look at this role like it’s a prison sentence instead of an opportunity?”
She stared at the darkening horizon. “Because everyone expects me to be this . . . version of myself. The brand. The persona. And now I’m supposed to carry this whole film, and everyone’s watching, and I feel like—” She exhaled sharply. “Like I’m suffocating.”
“But what do you want?” His voice was quiet. “Not the brand. You.”
The question landed somewhere she hadn’t expected. No one had asked her that in years. Maybe ever.
“I don’t even know anymore,” she whispered. “I used to have these . . . dreams. Things I wanted to make, to create. But every time I tried . . .” She trailed off. “The universe kept saying ‘no, not you.’ So I stopped asking.”
“Sounds lonely,” he said. “Being famous and invisible at the same time.”
The truth of it stung worse than the salt spray. “At least I’m living something,” she said, forcing a hollow laugh.
“Let me help you,” he said. “We’ll run lines at my villa. Just us.” His thumb drew a small circle on her arm. “You just need to stop performing for Martin and start performing for yourself.”
“Why?” Her voice was raw. “What do you get out of this?”
He looked away, jaw flexing. “Selfish reasons, mostly." He shifted on the jet ski. "A costar who can't hold it together makes me look bad too."
She raised an eyebrow. “So, this is self-interest.”
“And partly because I know what it’s like to feel like you’re drowning while everyone watches.” He held her gaze. “Whatever happened between us before this version of you is different. I don’t know what changed, but I’m not going to pretend I haven’t noticed.”
“We’re both drowning out here,” he said. “Might as well grab the same life raft.”
His mouth quirked up at one corner. “And watching you finally tell Martin to go to hell would make this whole disaster worth it.”
“Don’t make me regret this,” she said.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, and her chest answered it without her permission.
A distant engine growled across the water, breaking the moment. The rescue boat’s searchlight swept across the darkening bay, finding them. Stefan stood up, the jet ski rocking beneath his shifting weight.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Princesa.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. The boat drew closer, its engine cutting through the silence.
He glanced at the approaching light, then back at her. His expression shifted, softer, unguarded.
“And for the record? You’re doing better than you think. Stop being so hard on yourself, Erika.”
He said it like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just detonated her entire world.
She went rigid. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
“What did you call me?”
Something flickered across his face, regret, maybe. “I shouldn’t have—not like this.”
“Stefan.” Her voice shook. “What did you call me?”
The rescue boat’s engine grew louder, crew members shouting instructions across the water. He opened his mouth, but the boat pulled alongside them before he could answer. Hands reached down. Voices barked orders. Someone threw a line.
Stefan held her gaze for one more heartbeat. Long enough for her to see he meant what he said: not like this. Then he turned away and grabbed the line.