6. Reese
Chapter 6
Reese
August 19th
brEAKING: A-List Star Reese Sinclair Rejects Lead Role in a Cozy Holiday Romance—Sources Say “Grumpy Veterinarian Meets Single Dad Reindeer Ranch Owner” Plot “Too Predictable”
The metal breastplate digs into my ribs with each breath, and I’m seriously questioning why Felix thought this Xena Warrior Princess look was appropriate.
Sculpted metal boobs? Check .
Exposed midriff? Check .
Leather miniskirt that rides up every two seconds? Double check.
I didn’t sign up for this. Who in the wardrobe department thought this was superior to the jumpsuit costume I tried on during my fittings in LA?
“Would you focus?” I snap at Dante, who’s busy flashing his playboy smile at the nearby crew. Per Felix’s instructions, they’re resetting Robyn’s village for the third scene of act one— where Robyn stands up to the sheriff for the first time. “It’s your line after I pick up the weapon.”
He turns his devastating grin toward me, looking criminally good in his sheriff’s getup—a weathered leather vest that hugs his broad shoulders, kohl-lined eyes that promise trouble. My stomach does an inconvenient flip.
“I think I need another glance at that script,” he says.
“It’s one line, Mr. Hastings,” I frown. “You don’t need to look at the script.”
“Wait, that’s not your sword.” He stares at the weapon in my hands, then slowly shifts his golden eyes back to me, deliberately lingering on my lips for just a moment too long.
“No,” I groan, fighting the urge to step back, to put space between us, “the line is, ‘Oh, how delightful, the common folk—’”
“I saw your form during training,” he cuts in, as if I hadn’t even spoken. “And when Marcus and I were talking to the props team this morning, I told him—”
“You talked to the head stunt coordinator about me?” My bruised jaw throbs. Thank heavens for industrial-strength concealer.
“Part of my job,” he reminds me. Of course it is, Reese . “The distribution on this sword is all wrong for your weight and—”
“There’s nothing wrong with my weight,” I snap. Though the lightweight steel blade I expected to use today is a lot heavier than the waster I used for practice.
“Trust me. You’re perfect exactly as you are.” He pauses. “But each weapon needs to suit its wielder. That one’s fighting you because it wasn’t made for someone so…” Another pause; his pupils expand. “Elegant.”
I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or something else entirely.
Focus on the set, Reese.
The cameras. The scene.
Anything but him.
“Let me see that sword,” he insists.
“No,” I say, hiding it behind my back. “This is the weapon props gave me. I can do my choreography with it.” There’s nothing wrong with my sword. There’s nothing wrong with my technique. I can do this. I don’t need to be fussed over. I don’t need to be saved.
“Take it from the top,” Felix’s bark interrupts us. “Dante and Reese. Try to remember your damn lines. And, doll?” He turns to me. “For the love of god, strive to look like you know what you’re doing with that fucking sword.”
My shoulders instinctively curl inward before I catch myself and force them back. The weight of everyone’s stares presses against my skin as I reset.
“Oh, of course, Felix!” I chirp, bouncing on my toes. “I’ll do my very best to get it right this time!”
I still can’t land my lines with the choreography. It’s as if my body and brain are in open rebellion against me. During the first three days of shooting, I hit every one of my dialogue cues, but something about this sword renders me speechless.
This time, I’ll get it right. I have to.
Felix sighs at my response. Dozens of crew members scurry about, adjusting lights, checking equipment, and fussing over every detail. It’s a far cry from the rom-com sets I’m used to, where the biggest concern was whether my blush looked right. Here, everything is bigger, louder, more intense. The barrage of criticism isn’t helping either.
Is this what it means to be pushed to my limit? To grow?
Or am I simply out of my depth?
Maybe I’m nothing but an impostor in heavy armor, fumbling both my lines and my footing.
Still, I square my shoulders. Serious actresses don’t crumble. They command the screen.
From behind the grimy window of Robyn’s home, I watch the sheriff’s men terrorize our village set—their boots kick up dust on the weathered cobblestones. The props master spent hours arranging those knocked-over market stalls.
My heart races as I wait for my cue, trying to channel Robyn’s righteous anger. I spot Jeremy Vaughn, who plays our priest, taking his practiced fall as Dante looms over him. That’s my moment.
“Action, still rolling!” calls the assistant director.
I burst through the door.
“Hey,” I shout, charging forward toward the sword lying in the dirt. I reach for the weapon, but the grip still feels awkward. Wait, that wasn’t my whole line. “Sheriff.”
“CUT!”
Felix’s megaphone pierces through the air, and I flinch.
“For the tenth time,” he groans, “the line is ‘Hey, Sheriff,’ not ‘Hey,’ pause, ‘Sheriff.’ This isn’t working.” He paces through the crowd for a breath, then snaps his fingers. “Also, it’ll be better if you say it with some of the feminine vulnerability you’re known for?”
My cheeks burn.
Robyn is attacking the sheriff. Why should she be vulnerable right now?
“I can try it that way, but it may take away from Robyn’s momentum.”
He exchanges glances with one of the studio executives hovering nearby, his jaw working as if chewing on words he can’t say in front of witnesses. “Look, I get the whole female empowerment angle. I do, trust me—I have a daughter, okay? But maybe having you deliver the line naturally, instead of forcing a tough-lady persona, will help you nail it.”
Well, that’s one way to tell me my acting is atrocious.
“Sure, let’s try it that way.” I can’t let him make me feel small.
The costume department descends on me again. I struggle with the chest plate, fingers clawing at the pinching metal. “Ouch, these leather straps are driving me mad,” I hiss, my words barely audible over the set noise.
“Not your best wardrobe.” Dante’s voice slides in from behind, hot breath tickling my ear. My stomach lurches as he materializes beside me, too close for comfort.
I backpedal. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it, I—”
“My sisters would kill me if they saw this scene.” He cuts me off with a casual shrug, leaning against a nearby set piece.
“Your sisters?” I spin toward him. “I didn’t know about them.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, revealing I’d memorized—I mean, happened to read about—the three brothers he’s mentioned in countless interviews.
“They’re huge fans of yours.” His eyes spark with amusement. “Been begging me for your autograph since I got on set.”
“Oh.” Eloquent, Reese . I’m absolutely crushing this conversation. I cross my arms, skepticism dripping from my voice. “Is that why you’re such a sudden feminist now?” I immediately want to dissolve into the floor.
“Fuck yeah,” he fires back without hesitation, “but in no way am I claiming to be a perfect ally. I know fighters, though, and whatever suggestions Felix has aren’t true for a warrior like you.”
“I—” The words catch in my throat as Dante moves with lightning speed. Suddenly, he’s in front of me again, his blade glinting under the set lights.
He drops his voice to a commanding whisper. “Since you won’t let me inspect the weight of your sword, try holding it with two hands. Keep your shoulders squared and your knees bent.”
I wind my fingers over the hilt. “Like this?”
“Weapon hand near the guard, the other on the pommel when you pick it up.” His lips curl into a seductive, megawatt smile, and—against all odds—something inside me loosens.
I walk back to my starting position, feeling the heat of his gaze on the back of my neck.
“Rolling!” Felix shouts.
We run through the scene again. When I charge forward, I snatch up the weapon. I pray the movement looks more graceful than it feels as I follow Dante’s suggestion and hold it with both hands.
“Hey, Sheriff!” I shout.
Dante hesitates for a heartbeat until I give him a subtle signal, my eyes widening. His own flash with recognition as he delivers the line.
“Oh, how delightful,” he drawls, circling me like a predator. “The common folk show such spirit. But surely you understand, taxes are the crown’s divine right.”
I go to strike, but the sword betrays me and falls out of both my hands with a cramp. The blade clatters to the ground, the metallic ring echoing across the silent set.
“Cut!” Felix stalks toward me, the crew parting before him like sheep fleeing from a hungry wolf. “This is pathetic. You won’t infuse sex appeal into the role; you can’t manage your weapon.” His voice slices through the air. “Your agent promised me an actress who could handle both the physical and emotional demands of this role.”
“The stumbling matches Robyn’s character at this point in the story,” I blurt out, my voice trembling with desperation. The excuse tastes like ash in my mouth as Felix’s eyes narrow.
“Oh darling,” he drones, “you’re supposed to act uncertain, not embody it.” He wheels toward the crew, his voice deliberately loud enough for everyone to hear. “The studio specifically wanted someone who could do their own stunts for this role—no doubles, no CGI tricks. We’re paying triple-A action movie rates for someone who claimed they could handle fight choreography. Instead, we got…” He gestures vaguely at me, leaving the insult unspoken.
“What we got,” he continues, yanking off his glasses, “is a pretty face who can’t deliver a single line without stumbling. Sure, you’ll look great on the poster, but at what cost?” He massages his temples. “Each reshoot day burns through a quarter million dollars, and the investors are breathing down my neck.”
My eyes drop to my boots, the lump in my throat threatening to choke me.
His mouth twists into a sneer as he turns his back to me. “The whole marketing campaign is built around you doing your own stunts—the behind-the-scenes footage, the promotional interviews, everything. Your contract specifically states no stunt doubles. And we’re a month away from the big raft sequence, which requires perfect execution.”
The collective groans of the crew hit me like physical blows. This can’t be happening.
“I can do this,” I insist. My accent betrays me, rounding with each word, as it always does when I’m nervous. “I’ve trained for months. Something feels off with this sword. It’s heavier than what I’ve been practicing with.”
“Marcus!” Felix calls out above the uncomfortable murmurs. “Get over here.”
The head stunt coordinator emerges from behind the trunk of a nearby redwood. “What’s the issue?”
“Props must have had a mixup. This isn’t her weapon,” Dante explains, biceps flexing as he picks up my fallen blade. My cheeks burn as I catch myself staring at his arms, remembering how he’d pulled me aside earlier to warn me about the weight being off. If only I’d listened instead of being too proud to admit I was struggling.
Marcus examines the hilt, deep creases forming between his eyes. “You’re right, it’s not what we approved for this scene.” The validation in his voice only makes me feel worse about dismissing Dante’s concerns.
“Exactly,” Dante mutters. “We need her designated sword, the one balanced specifically for these early scenes where Robyn’s still learning.” He turns to me. “Your sequence requires specific balance points. The weapon you should be using is intended to be lighter than the waster you’ve been practicing with.” The gentleness in his explanation, especially after Felix’s public dressing-down, makes my heart race for entirely different reasons.
Marcus nods, agreeing with Dante and turns to the crew. “Props! Armory! We need the B-14 sword setup, now!”
“Why the hell wasn’t the right sword on set?” Felix’s face reddens. “Get her the correct weapon. And someone find out who messed up the equipment rotation so I can fire them. We’re not paying millions to shoot with the wrong props.”
The props master stammers something about inventory mix-ups, but Felix is already moving.
“With my regular sword, I know I can nail this,” I call after him.
“Here’s what we’ll do, sweetie.” His rancid coffee breath singes my nostrils as he walks back toward me. “We’ll reorganize the shoot. All dialogue scenes and basic choreography first. I’m giving you a month to master the advanced sequences before the raft scene—that’s your make-or-break moment. If you can’t handle it by then, we bring in a double, contract or no contract. Clear?”
I nod, relief and panic mixing in my chest. “Crystal clear. I’ll be ready.”
The condescension in his tone makes my skin crawl, but I keep my face carefully blank. His lips curl into a satisfied smirk before he turns to the EP and instantly switches personas.
“Victor! This staffing situation is exactly what I was telling you about.” He gestures at the sword with exaggerated frustration. “Let’s discuss this over coffee. Fifteen-minute break, everyone!”
One month to master this new sword, strengthen my body, perfect these lines, and prepare for the raft scene.
I’ll need to double my training, maybe even triple it.
And I’ll have to convince myself that putting my head underwater isn’t as terrifying as it feels.
As the crew disperses, I catch sympathetic glances from the sound team and realize there’s still a boom mic hovering above me. Ugh . I want to vanish. But before I can escape, I find Dante watching me.
“That guy is a fucking asshole,” he says.
Of course he heard everything. Having been dressed down like a child in front of a real fighter compounds my humiliation.
“It’s fine,” I lie. “Thank you for intervening with the sword.” The words taste bitter. I feel stupid and helpless, as if I’ve let him fight my battles. He pointed out the equipment issue earlier, and all I could do was criticize him about his lines.
His gaze turns all business now. “Just looking out for your safety.”
“Really?” The question slips out, more vulnerable than I intended.
“The safety of the crew is my job. And I know how much you value professionalism. Besides,” he continues, “I’ve seen too many people get hurt trying to prove themselves with the wrong equipment. Your choreography is solid, Reese. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Thanks for—” I pause, my tongue twisting itself into a knot.
“All good.” He shrugs, a strand of hair falling into his eyes, and he blows it out of the way with a cocky flick, like he’s James Dean.
I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry for being hard on you about your lines. Clearly I’m in no position to judge, since I can’t seem to string together a coherent sentence today.” I sigh, rubbing my forehead.
“I want this to work. It’s not just another role to me. It’s important. And—” I stop myself before I blurt out something horrifically earnest, like how terrified I am of failing and being stuck in rom-com purgatory forever.
Instead, I clear my throat and force a more dignified approach. “What I meant to say is, I’m sorry for being impatient with you.”
“I get it. I know what it’s like to struggle with something that should be simple.” His fingers tap against his sword hilt, a nervous gesture I hadn’t noticed before. “I have dyslexia. I can wield a sword, but if you make me read ‘ether’—I mean, ‘either,’ it always trips me up.”
“Either versus ether,” I repeat, nodding with understanding.
“Yeah. My brain says ‘either,’ my mouth says ‘ether,’ and now I’m going to be fucking up that word for a week.” He chuckles, a little sheepish, a little endearing. The kind of laugh that makes me want to learn every word he struggles with—
Nope.
“That must be frustrating,” I offer, my tone gentler than it’s ever been with him.
“Sometimes the simplest lines…” He bites the inside of his cheek, tilting his head. “What I’m saying is, everyone needs the right tools, whether it’s a properly balanced sword or…”
He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anyway. I’ll figure it out. You focus on nailing your scenes, with the correct equipment.”
What is wrong with me? I’ve spent the entire three days at the table read and this week rolling my eyes at him, convinced I had him pegged as the irritating playboy who coasts by on good looks, a family name, and never-earned talent.
But I was wrong.
Not completely wrong—he’s still frustratingly flirtatious when he should be focusing—but wrong enough that shame burns in my chest.
While I’ve been up here on my moral high ground, he’s been silently dealing with challenges I never bothered to consider.
The rest of the day drags on. Despite the better sword, I still can’t manage to say my lines while performing my choreography, earning many of Felix’s signature I am deeply disappointed in you stares. His one-month ultimatum looms over me like a storm cloud.
I need to start taking things into my own hands.