Page 21 of The Hollywood Switch-up

The seaplane banked low over impossible blue water before touching down in a spray of white foam. Erika had spent the flight white-knuckling the armrest, running through Anneliese’s training like a prayer. Chin up. Two-beat laugh. Hands like butterflies, not spiders.

Her phone had buzzed five times since takeoff. She hadn’t looked at a single message.

The plane coasted to a stop beside a wooden dock where a water taxi idled. Erika climbed in on unsteady legs, the small boat rocking beneath her. The Bahamian heat pressed down hard, sweat already beading along her hairline.

When the taxi bumped against the main dock, she stepped off too quickly. Her ankle twisted on the wet planks, nearly sending her sprawling in front of the waiting film crew. She caught herself against a wooden piling, the rough surface scraping her palm.

Annie Banana:

Status update NOW

Erika’s thumbs hovered over the screen.

Annie Banana:

Are you ignoring me?? I’m dying here, Bean

Annie Banana:

Remember. Shoulders back. You are the sun. Everyone else is just orbiting you.

Annie Banana:

And Don’t do that thing where you hunch. It reads as “apologetic” on camera.

Olivia appeared beside her, not a wrinkle in her linen pantsuit despite the wall of humidity. “Showtime.” She nudged Erika forward as a crew member approached.

Eri:

Just landed. Fine. Crew coming.

The phone buzzed.

Annie Banana:

FINE??? That’s all I get? My CAREER is at stake!

Annie Banana:

Does the villa have security? Is it the one with the infinity pool? I specifically requested the one with the infinity pool.

Annie Banana:

Send pics. Now. And Bradley?????

Erika shoved the phone into her pocket as the crew member reached them, plastering on what she hoped was her sister’s camera-ready smile.

Olivia’s phone lit up with Anneliese’s face. Olivia answered with practiced efficiency. “Annie, she literally just texted you.” She turned away, voice dropping.

“No, she hasn’t fallen into the ocean . . . Yes, I’m watching her . . . Because hovering helps no one.” Olivia’s finger tapped against her thigh. “I’ll call before takeoff. Let. Her. Breathe.”

She hung up and fixed Erika with a look that could freeze champagne.

The crew member approached, all pressed linen and nerves. His eyes flicked to the clipboard in his hand—she caught a glimpse of her sister’s headshot stapled to the top—then back to her face. Recognition bloomed into something closer to awe.

“Welcome to the Albany, Miss Morgan.” He said her sister’s name like it was a brand he was proud to recognize. “I’m—wow, sorry—I’m such a huge fan. My girlfriend follows all your stuff.”

Erika’s mouth was dry. She forced her lips into the smile she’d practiced for hours in the mirror—the one Anneliese deployed when cornered by paparazzi. But her laugh snagged somewhere between her chest and throat, emerging as something between a hiccup and a yelp. Nailed it. She overcorrected her voice into a breathy soprano that belonged in a 1940s film.