12. Reese
Chapter 12
Reese
“Good morning, sunshine.” Dante’s voice slices through my closed front door.
Dawn creeps through the windows of my cabin, painting stripes of pale blue light across the wooden floor. The camp is unnaturally quiet at 6:00 a.m., most of the crew having cleared out Saturday night, leaving behind only the whisper of wind through the pines and the distant call of early birds.
I crack the door open and find him leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place, a metal mug steaming in his hand.
“Shouldn’t you be terrorizing some other actress at this hour?”
We’ve slipped into an easy rhythm this week. He shows up to our sessions each night with an extra protein bar and extra Berg water. After training, he insists on walking me home. He holds open the rec center door, carries my bag when it’s too heavy, and always asks before touching any part of my body to adjust form. We text, small conversations here and there.
He’s been studying my recordings, repeating tricky words from his script, and answering all my sword-fighting questions—like how fencers scream to influence right-of-way decisions and the strange pre-bout rituals some have, including Dante painting his nails black.
“You’re my favorite to terrorize.”
His weight shifts, a lazy, unhurried movement that shouldn’t affect me. Shouldn’t send a sharp awareness skittering through my chest. But it does. My gaze snags lower. His sweatpants are riding low. Too low.
Absolutely, unequivocally distracting.
I snap my attention to the giant redwood behind him. I need to look literally anywhere but at him.
When I don’t speak for far too long, he says, “Besides, I’m here strictly on business.”
“How did you know I’d be awake?”
“Lucky guess.”
“Okay…well, do you need to, uh…” The thought dissolves as his fingers brush absently over the delicate chain around his neck, drawing my attention to the tattoos climbing up his throat.
“Are you not feeling well?”
“Why would you say that?” I pull back with surprise.
“You’re all flushed.”
“I’m not! I’m just tired,” I lie, and the smirk on his face tells me he knows I’m lying too. “Do you need to cancel our training today?”
“No, I wouldn’t dream of it. But we are doing something different today, and as your instructor, you’re going to have to trust me.”
Trust.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m not asking. I’m telling you.” I hate how my body responds to his authority, the same authority that’s improved my swordplay more in ten days than two months of training with Nick. “I mean, as long as you agree…” He pauses, extending the mug like a peace offering. “Here, have a sip of this first.”
The cup of tea I brewed a few minutes ago sits forgotten on the kitchenette counter.
“What is this?” I eye the mug. “Because if it’s coffee, I don’t—”
He cuts me off. “I know. Vanity Fair mentioned you like English breakfast tea with honey. I guessed on the sweeter side, since you admitted to sneaking sugar in your mom’s sun tea.”
A shiver runs down my spine, one that has nothing to do with the morning chill. “Some might call it creepy to research someone so thoroughly.” Red flag number twenty-three waves bright in my mind, but I take the mug anyway.
“But you find it endearing because you love research.” The knowing look in his golden eyes makes my stomach flip, and I hate that he’s right—both about the research and about how I feel about his attention to detail.
The first sip spreads across my tongue. It’s perfectly steeped, the honey melted just right. Damn him.
“Thank you, Mr. Hastings,” I manage, eyeing my script like a lifeline. “As much as I’d love to see whatever you have planned, I’m planning to spend the morning reviewing Felix’s notes and triple-checking my lines for next week.”
“Let me guess, Felix added more tears?” It’s a rhetorical question, because he knows the answer is yes. Every day, Felix is either wanting more cleavage or more waterworks.
“Once he gets into the editing process, he’ll see that my suggestions are superior.” At least, I hope so.
“Sure.” He says it half-heartedly. “And until then, we’re going for a drive.”
“I told you, I can’t leave the camp.” The words come out automatically. “And my lines—”
“Won’t go anywhere. Come on, Reese. When has playing it safe ever served you? Or Robyn, for that matter?”
“That’s different,” I manage, but my resolve is already cracking. “Robyn has a cause. She has—”
“Nothing to lose? Neither do you.” He takes another step closer, and the doorway shrinks. “Think about it. What if Robyn had stayed in the village? What if she’d never picked up a sword, never challenged the king’s men?” His eyes lock onto mine. “Some risks are worth taking, Reese. And I promise you, this one is. It’s just like how we danced that first night of training. You need to get out of your head.”
I do, but I shouldn’t leave. Not with him.
But this is about the role , I tell myself firmly, ignoring the way my skin tingles when he smiles.
Just the role.
To become a better Robyn.
Nothing more.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “No underlying intentions?”
“From me?” He gasps dramatically. “It’s my job to make sure you perform your best, and you’ve been so diligent in providing me weekly homework assignments that today I thought it’s time I give you a lesson.”
I shouldn’t go. Not when I’m thinking about what other lessons he could give me.
“Give me five minutes to change,” I hear myself say, even as my inner voice screams something about career suicide. But there’s no denying that his unconventional methods have results, do they?
“Yes, ma’am.” He turns away instantly, a gesture so respectful it aches. I dress in a sweatshirt, jeans, a cap, and sunglasses, adding lip gloss before I can question why.
When I emerge, his back is still turned. Something flutters beneath my ribs.
“I should give this back to you,” I say, holding out his jacket carefully to maintain the air gap between us.
“Keep it,” he replies, eyes dancing. And I reluctantly hang it back up on the coat rack by my door.
We leave my cabin and cross the parking lot, gravel crunching under his heavy boots. The security teams are at the camp entrance, monitoring every exit. My pulse quickens. Dante leads me to his blacked-out Range Rover.
“After you.” He opens my door, offering his hand to help me up.
My mama would swoon over his southern-boy manners. Though I’ve carefully avoided mentioning Dante in any of my weekly calls with my parents.
His hand lightly touches my back, and I rocket into the car.
He slides behind the wheel. “Buckle up,” he says, not starting the engine until he hears the click.
“How exactly are we dodging my bodyguard, Ramsey? Let alone the rest of security.”
He leans over, his bare arm hovering inches above my thigh. I fixate on the hair at the nape of his neck, wanting to run my fingers through it.
He yanks my seat lever, and I drop backward, gasping as he stares above me.
“There,” he says plainly, like he isn’t the reason my heart is beating in my throat and at the base of my stomach.
“This is your master plan? Really?”
“One more thing.” He pulls off his hoodie in one fell swoop.
“If someone catches me hiding in your car…” The threat hangs unfinished.
“They won’t.” His playful tone shifts to something more serious. “I’ve got you. Now cover up.” Without warning, he drapes his hoodie over me.
Every muscle in my body tenses and then melts because I’m engulfed in him. His warmth lingers in the fabric, wrapping around me. I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling.
For a split second, I imagine what his weight would be like pressing me into this seat, what it would be like if his fingers wrapped around my thighs instead of that lever. My pulse matches the purr of the engine as I lie under my trainer’s jacket, escaping from set. Without Ramsey’s protective shadow, something wild and forbidden unfurls in my chest.
We drive for a while as I lie there, completely still. But beneath the soft gray cotton of his hoodie, I’m smiling—because deep down, I’m having fun.
“You can sit up now, Thelma,” he says.
I do, fixing the seat upright while keeping his hoodie draped over my lap.
“Now that is a movie I’d love to be in the remake of.” I roll down the window, letting the crisp forest air whip through my hair.
“Rebellion looks good on you,” he says, shooting me a wink.
We wind our way through towering redwoods, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in scattered beams as French techno music fills the car. The trees gradually thin until suddenly the coastline appears—a stunning expanse of blue ocean meeting the horizon. That’s when a cheerful yellow stand catches my eye. Hand-painted red letters read, Mama Jones’ Biscuits .
Biscuits? Out here?
All the effort I spent maintaining my collected attitude falters in the face of proper carbohydrates.
“Pull over,” I demand, already reaching for my seatbelt. “Now.”
“Since when do you give the orders?”
“Since there’s butter and honey involved. Stop the darn car before I grab the wheel myself.”
He swerves off the road, tires crunching gravel. I adjust my baseball cap and sunglasses, already halfway to the stand when he calls out, “Running away again? And here I thought we were making progress.”
The double meaning in his voice makes me smile, but I don’t turn back.
Once I reach the stand, my heart doubles in size. Fresh-baked buttermilk biscuits, rows of homemade jams, and the kind of authentic, small-town charm that’s impossible to find in LA. The aroma of butter-brushed tops and honey brings back memories of Sunday mornings in New Orleans.
“Hello, darlin’.” The elderly lady at the stand gives me a beaming smile that reminds me of home.
“Biscuits?” I exclaim. “Real southern biscuits? Here?”
The elderly woman gestures toward a small cabin nestled up the road, her southern drawl wrapping around me like an electric blanket. “Been bringing a piece of home to these California roads for over a decade now.”
“You’re heaven sent.”
“And you,” Dante murmurs, so close his breath stirs my hair, “are a mystery. The great Re—” He catches himself, and my heart skips a beat at how quickly he corrects course, protecting my identity here. “ Rebel pulled apart by the sight of biscuits.”
“Biscuits are my second favorite carb, next to beignets,” I tell him, then I turn to the lovely lady at the stand. “He’s not southern. Doesn’t understand the sacred art of biscuit-making or the magic pastries and powder you can find at Cafe Du Monde.”
“Oh, honey.” The woman’s eyes crinkle knowingly. “It seems to me he understands plenty about what makes you tick. We operate on the honor system here, take what you need, pay what you can.”
She waddles off, leaving us alone.
“Let me guess,” he says, reaching past me with deliberate slowness, “a traditionalist like you probably never strays from her comfort zone.” His fingers hover near the strawberry jam.
I snatch the apricot instead. “Some of us know what we want without needing to sample everything on the menu.”
“Interesting. Is that why you’ve been avoiding the advanced parry training? Sticking to your fundamental sequence when the world has so many new, sweet rewards?”
I roll my eyes and regain focus, filling up my paper bag with biscuits and jars of jam.
When I go to reach for the wallet I tucked into my jeans before leaving, he stops me.
“Here, allow me.”
“I got it, Mr. Hastings, but thank you.” I fold two crisp hundred-dollar bills, shoving them in the jar.
He adds three hundred more. “Consider it an investment in your training.”
“Your investment strategies need work.” I counter with five more bills. “Just like your teaching methods.”
“Always so much bite from you,” he says.
“Wait until you see what I do with these biscuits.”