7. Reese
Chapter 7
Reese
It’s now or never.
I traverse the path between the cabins to the one closest to the lake. My boots crunch on the gravel. My metal bra digs into my ribs with every step, the chain mail belt clinking like demon toddlers banging pots across the quiet lake.
I should’ve changed out of this costume. But it’s already late, I’m fresh off set, and if I stop walking now, I’ll overthink it and talk myself out of it.
I rehearse what I’ll say: I need your help . My lips move silently, practicing.
Simple. Professional. Not desperate at all.
I approach what should be Dante’s cabin. Laughter spills from the window, along with the sound of bass. Of course he’s having a party.
This is a bad idea. I fidget with my leather skirt.
I could back out, ask Heather for another trainer, but that would cost the studio money.
Money Felix has been complaining about nonstop.
Plus, requesting another trainer screams “disagreeable diva.”
I have to do this.
It’s either ask Dante for help or fail tomorrow. What if he rejects me? I was kind of mean to him. He seems like the type to enjoy that sort of thing, though. I bite my lip, weighing options.
You’re out of options, Reese. I huff, inching up his cabin steps. When I reach his porch, I peek through the window.
The place looks like he personally flew in a designer from Architectural Digest .
How did he get his own cabin? There are shearling rugs and a large couch. A Vitamix blender on the counter and a fully stocked bar cart?
The only thing I packed was my workout gear and a kettle for tea. What more could a person need? We’re only here for three months.
I raise my fist and knock twice. No answer. I ball up my fist tighter and slam it hard, but the door swings open and my fist connects with warm, bare skin. I stumble backward and find myself staring at Dante’s very firm, very naked chest, which is shimmering like a disco ball. The faint scent of smoke wraps around me like a spell.
Goodness gracious. I can’t help but stare, momentarily frozen.
Someone calls, “Dante, darling!” from inside, where willowy figures dressed in cashmere are lounging. “Is the delivery finally here?”
Ignoring them, he glances between my fist pressed against his sternum and my revealing costume. We’re standing too close for two people wearing so little, and his body heat is making it difficult to remember why I came.
I yank my fist away, cradling it.
Beyond his shoulder, Marcus and Simon laugh by the bar. Is that our head writer raising a glass like tomorrow’s 5:00 a.m. call time doesn’t exist?
Loneliness slithers down my neck, cold and familiar. A PA hastily hides her drink, eyes widening with recognition. Great . The staff always avoids me on set, yet here in Dante’s cabin, they look comfortable—at ease in ways they never are around me.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of Hollywood’s next action star showing up at my door?” He surveys me, eyebrow arched. “Does production know you’re out past curfew?”
Yeah, I was right. Coming here was a mistake.
I should flee to my own cabin, but I can’t. My feet remain rooted, betraying me. I need this. I need him.
I clear my throat. “Does production know you’re hosting a party during filming, Mr. Hastings?”
“ Touché .” His mouth quirks. “Though we both know the crew turns an eye to certain indiscretions.”
Do they? I didn’t know that.
“Some of us care about the rules,” I say, lacking conviction even to my own ears.
“How’s the bruise healing? Makeup did a good job hiding it.” His gaze licks over every inch of my face as if he’s savoring me.
“Nothing I can’t manage,” I clip.
He steps back, giving me the space I desperately need to remain focused. “What really brought you here, fighter? Something tells me it wasn’t to check on my line memorization.”
“ I need you to train me,” I say, meeting his gaze.
He crosses his arms, muscles flexing. “Thought you weren’t interested in my help, Miss By-The-Book.”
“I wasn’t, and this is probably a horrible idea.” I swallow. “But you’re obviously incredible with a sword. The way you move—” I pause, getting a handle on myself. “You had my back when no one else did. That counts. And I need to impress Felix, which means I need—” I gesture toward him.
“Me.”
I grimace at his mischievous grin. “Unlike you, I’m struggling to nail the choreography and lines at the same time.”
“What about Nick Valentine?”
“Nick follows Felix’s orders to focus on my appearance instead of giving me the help I actually need,” I say, shifting my weight. “I’ve never struggled like this before—my lines vanish when I move. The sword’s throwing me off.”
He steps closer, his tall frame filling the doorway. “On the piste, I can only focus on my saber and my opponent. Reciting all of your lines while fencing would be impossible.”
Relief washes over me. “So you understand.”
“I’ve never actually trained anyone,” he admits, running a hand through his tousled hair.
“Then why offer in the first place?”
“Thought you’d appreciate my work ethic.”
“Never mind, this was desperate,” I sigh and turn to leave.
“Wait,” he says, stepping onto the porch. “Not desperate—dedicated.” His sincerity catches me off guard. “I haven’t trained anyone officially, but I mentor teammates constantly. Felix brought me on for authenticity. Helping you is part of my job.”
I spin back, my hope returning. “You’ll actually train me?”
He moves closer. “Of course. Now, be honest—do you always show up at strangers’ doors demanding help?”
“Only as Xena the Warrior Princess,” I quip, hands clanging against my chain mail skirt.
His laugh—head tilted back, eyes bright—sends goose bumps up my arms. That sound shouldn’t affect me so deeply.
“She jokes! You might have a future in comedy. I thought you were all schedules and drills.”
I glance up at him, straining my neck. He towers over me—imposing yet somehow reassuring. I wonder if he means what he says or if I’m just his next target. From what I’ve seen, it’s the latter.
“Ha ha,” I mock. “Let’s focus. I won’t expect free training.”
“Do tell.”
“I can help with your dyslexia,” I offer. “My best friend has it too. Cleo says it’s cruelly ironic they named it dyslexia, considering it affects people who struggle with spelling.”
“It’s Greek. Dys meaning ‘difficult,’ lexis meaning ‘words.’ Ironic, indeed.” He smiles, angling toward me, waiting for reciprocation. I don’t oblige.
I nod briskly. “I helped her with recordings and phonics-based techniques. It bridges written and spoken words. I can make recordings for you.”
Surprise flickers across his face. “I used that method in college.”
“At Princeton, right?” I realize my mistake instantly, eyes widening.
“Don’t wear out that Wikipedia page.” He smirks.
I cringe. “If we have a deal, let’s start training.”
“Tonight? During my carefully curated soirée?”
“Felix wants reshoots tomorrow. If I mess up again…” Anxiety silences me.
His golden eyes trace over me again, considering. “Fine. Ten minutes. Studio.”
“Great, thank you, I’ll go change—”
“Keep the costume.” His grin turns wicked, sending heat racing down my spine. “I’m starting to like it, Hollywood .”
I step closer until we’re inches apart, my head tilted back to meet his gaze. “Never call me that.”
“You’re right,” he concedes. “‘Fighter’ suits you better.”
I retreat before he sees how his words affect me, trying to ignore the tempting urge to trace the trail of glitter on his chest.
This knot in my stomach isn’t attraction. It can’t be. I walk away. I’ve been here before—watched my career nearly collapse because I confused fiction with reality. I don’t fall for costars. Not again. Not with everything at stake.