20. Erika
ERIKA
Erika hadn’t slept. Stop being so hard on yourself, Erika. Her real name in his mouth. She’d replayed the moment a thousand times, searching for another explanation, but there wasn’t one. The rescue boat had arrived before she could demand answers.
Morning light streamed through the villa windows. What was his angle? He could have exposed her on the boat. But he hadn’t. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking and her phone wouldn’t be quiet.
Annie Banana:
Did you post the detox video yet?
Annie Banana:
Also, WTF is this Page Eight article?? “Morgan and Cruz’s On-Set Meltdown Sparks Dating Rumors”???
Annie Banana:
There’s a photo of you two on that jet ski looking VERY cozy.
Annie Banana:
Are you SLEEPING with him?!?!?!
Eri:
No! God, Annie. It’s not what it looks like. The jet ski died. He was helping me.
Annie Banana:
He brOKE MY ANKLE, Erika. And now you’re cuddling with him in the ocean?
Annie Banana:
You’re supposed to be on MY side.
Erika stared at those words. She’d been there that night at PLUMP. Anneliese had tripped on her own heel. Stefan never touched her. The headlines blamed him anyway.
Eri:
I’m on your side. Always. Promise.
She moved to the terrace, needing air. Beyond the bougainvillea, a figure caught her eye.
Stefan stood on his terrace, phone pressed to his ear, his free hand dragging through dark hair.
He wore a white T-shirt that clung to his shoulders and loose linen pants low on his hips.
Even from thirty yards away, she could see the tension in his jaw.
He froze. His gaze found hers through the foliage. His chin dipped, that small movement meant only for her.
Her fingers found the railing and gripped hard.
Her body remembered what her brain was trying to forget—the hard press of him against her spine, the way his arm had locked around her waist like she belonged there.
The way she’d wanted to turn around, wrap her legs around him, and find out if his mouth tasted like salt—
She couldn’t walk onto that set tomorrow without knowing what he wanted.
Fantastic. Add ‘interrogate costar’ to the schedule.
She grabbed her sandals and headed for the door before a voice stopped her.
“Miss Morgan?”
Erika turned. Lena stood at the edge of the terrace, clutching a small notebook to her chest.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” Lena said, eyes darting toward Stefan’s villa. “I was just coming to drop off some call sheet updates, but—” She bit her lip. “My niece follows all your socials, and I know this is so unprofessional, but could I possibly get your autograph? For her?”
Erika’s heart was hammering, but she forced herself to smile. Anneliese would never refuse a fan.
“Of course! What’s her name?”
“Chloe,” Lena breathed.
Erika took the notebook, her signature transforming into Anneliese’s looping scrawl. To Chloe—stay sparkly! She added the trademark heart over the ‘I’ and handed it back.
“Thank you so much.” Lena clutched the notebook, then glanced in that direction. “Are you . . . heading somewhere?”
“Just getting some air.” The lie came out smooth. Too smooth. She was getting better at this. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
Lena nodded, something flickering behind her eyes. “Have a good morning, Miss Morgan.”
Erika waited until she disappeared around the corner before exhaling.
The path wound through the hibiscus and palm.
Each step felt like the walk to a gallery critique she already knew would be brutal.
What was she going to say? Hey, so you used my real name last night—care to explain?
Or maybe: Before we kiss on camera tomorrow, we should probably discuss the fact that you know I’m committing fraud.
Her sandals crunched on the gravel.
His villa materialized through the foliage—white stucco, blue shutters, a terrace identical to hers. The door was ajar, as if he’d been expecting her.
She stopped at the threshold. Her hand rose to knock.
This is a terrible idea.
The door swung open. Stefan stood in the doorframe, barefoot, coffee cup in hand.
He’d thrown on a linen shirt, but hadn’t bothered with the buttons, it hung open, revealing a chest she was trying not to stare at.
Stubble shadowed his jaw, and the dark smudges under his eyes made him look like a Baroque saint after a rough night of martyrdom.
Her gaze dropped before she could stop it. The cut of his abs. The trail of dark hair. The low waistband of his pants.
Eyes up.
When she met his gaze, his mouth curved—just barely. He’d noticed.
“There she is,” he said. His voice was rough, sleep-deprived. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten me.”
Her mouth went dry. “Stefan—”
He stepped aside to let her in. The doorway was narrow—or maybe he didn’t move back far enough. She had to brush past him, her shoulder grazing his bare chest. Coffee, soap, and underneath it all, skin—warm and dangerously familiar.
Behind her, the door clicked shut like a decision being made.