13. Reese
Chapter 13
Reese
The biscuits were perfect, the view is unreal, and I hate how much I’m enjoying this.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself as we settle against the windshield on the hood of Dante’s Range Rover. He found a small overlook that’s secluded and out of the way down a gravelly road. No other cars, let alone people, in sight. The Pacific crashes below us. The morning air is crisp, and despite my reluctance to admit it, it is nice to be away from set for just a few hours. Even if all I can focus on is the way his foot taps against the metal hood and how he keeps stealing glances at me.
There’s a tiny biscuit crumb on the side of his mouth, and I can’t stop thinking about wiping it away. Don’t look at it.
He packs up the leftover biscuits and tosses them in the car. When he hops back onto the hood with way too much ease, he says, “I think I’m overdue on a homework assignment, Professor Sinclair.”
The crumb is gone. Damn wind.
“You are,” I smile.
“Okay, so I owe you three big regrets. Right? First one…” His eyes trace a seagull flying above. “Most definitely when I took my dad’s car for a joyride when I was fourteen. Peak rebel stage, but seeing my mom cry after my dad picked me up from jail, not my finest moment.”
I blink at him, actually stunned. Fourteen?
“What, you didn’t expect me to take your questions seriously?” His elbow brushes mine, and for a second I want the wind to blow me right off this hood, away from him, because he’s too close. “I’m hoping for straight A’s this semester.”
“I thought you were going to say you regret one of your bicep tattoos or crashing one of DiCaprio’s many Hamptons parties,” I say, my voice teasing but careful.
“My regrets are far more interesting.”
“How did you know how to drive? Why would you take the car?”
“My sister Frankie,” he says. “She was some kind of karting prodigy, started competing when she was eight. Taught all of us how to drive like professionals even before some of us could see over the dashboard. Technically illegal, but that was kind of the point.” He shrugs, a hint of his old recklessness showing through. “As for why…I wanted to see what it felt like, you know? Driving a Phantom. I had no boundaries back then, no sense of consequences. If something looked interesting, I did it.
“After that little incident…” His voice trails off, and he shifts in his seat, avoiding my gaze. “They shipped me off to boarding school.” There’s an edge to his voice I haven’t heard before, a crack in his usual confident facade. “Found fencing there. First thing I was actually good at.” He lets out a bitter laugh that makes my heart twist unexpectedly. “While my siblings were…” His hand waves dismissively in the air between us. “Well, everything came easier to them. Earlier.”
“They sent just you?” I ask softly. My actress instincts kick in, wanting to understand every detail, but I force myself to stay quiet, giving him space to answer. “What about your siblings?”
“They never needed a leash,” he says with a sharp laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “But hey, boarding school wasn’t complete torture. Got to take that poster of you with me.” He pauses, something raw flickering across his face before he masks it. “And you know what? When you grow up in a house that feels like a circus, sometimes solitary confinement is exactly what you need. All that…silence. Space to breathe.”
When I was younger, I used to play characters with lonely childhoods, kids who were desperate to be noticed, to be loved. Sure, they acted out—skipping homework, giving their parents the silent treatment—but it was nothing compared to what Dante did.
I can’t imagine.
My parents showered me with the kind of love that felt like honey, constant and sweet. I wonder what path I might have taken if I’d followed in his footsteps. Looking back now, I can count on one hand the number of actors I started with who are still in the business. The rest disappeared like morning fog, leaving behind only faded headshots and half-remembered names.
I study him carefully, the way his shoulders tense as he tries to seem casual. “Must have been lonely.”
“Don’t look at me like that and psychoanalyze me,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I was a little shit who needed discipline. Still am, just with better clothes.”
The self-deprecation hits a nerve. I’ve spent my whole career playing roles, reading people, but Dante’s different. Every layer I peel back reveals something more complex.
“I’m not trying to—” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “It’s different. Being an only child, I never had to compete for attention. I guess it was also that my dad was a dentist and my mama was a teacher.”
His expression softens, barely. “Love isn’t a finite resource, you know. Though don’t tell my siblings, but Brooklyn and Frankie are still my favorites.” The charm is back, but now I can see it for what it is—armor.
But I wear mine too. Under our carefully crafted personas—his charm, my poise—we’re both trying to protect ourselves.
I find myself leaning forward, my voice softening. “You know, I may not have siblings, but I understand isolation. When I started on Clubhouse , everything changed. Homeschooling, constant travel, my parents gradually stepping back from set visits.” I pause. “In this industry, real connections are rare. Besides Cleo, my best friend since forever…” I let out a small laugh. “Most of my twenties were spent alone in five-star hotels or luxury rentals near set. Sounds glamorous, right? But it was just me, takeout containers, and endless script revisions.”
“Is that why you’re such a perfectionist? No one watching your back?”
“No,” I say firmly. “I came out of the womb color-coding my toys.”
“Baby Sinclair.” He smirks. “Organizing her blocks by size and aesthetic appeal.”
“Oh, hush,” I say, but I’m fighting a smile.
“Now my second biggest regret,” he says. “Wait, should you be taking notes for your character study?”
“I have it all up here.” I tap my head, not wanting to admit that I don’t think I’ll ever forget a thing about him.
“Right,” he chuckles. “You’ve read about my second biggest regret. Everyone has.”
“Getting suspended,” I say tentatively. This was the main reason I wanted to ask him about his regrets. He told me there was more to the story, and now, more than ever, I desperately need to know what that more is.
“I was meant to be there. Gold medal favorite, both individual and team. But at the World Cup, this guy threatened to out one of my teammates, and his family’s not exactly accepting.” He pauses, and I see him weighing how much to reveal, probably calculating the risk like he does with everything. “I was his first. With a guy, I mean. It was one of those things that happen in the heat of the moment after a match.”
There are plenty of rumors online about Dante being bi, but this confirms it.
“So what happened?”
“I lost it,” he continues. “Stupid, really. I’m used to threats before matches. That’s sport—in fact, that’s being a Hastings most of the time. But this dick was threatening to destroy someone’s life? Take away their only constant?”
He says his family’s name like it’s a responsibility, the same way Heather talks about my reputation. Like it’s something to uphold, something that defines me.
“They suspended you for defending your teammate?” I ask, tilting my head. “That’s—”
“The United States Fencing Association takes misconduct seriously. No attending matches, no participating in matches, no fencing for one whole year.”
“But you’ll get to fence again, right?” I can’t imagine being forced to step away from acting.
“I have to petition the disciplinary committee next spring and prove to them I’ve been on good behavior. Got off easy though, if I’m honest. Being one of the top fencers helped, and Coach pulled strings until they reduced it to a year and some community service bullshit.”
“Community service? How very bad boy of you,” I tease, hoping it will loosen his jaw, which is clenched so tightly he may break a molar.
“Coach has me teaching this kid, Em, on Fridays. She’s insufferable, all teenage angst and rolled eyes, hates the discipline of it all.”
“This Em sounds like someone else I’m getting to know.”
“Hardly,” he huffs. “It’s so strange. I never thought I’d be a trainer or a coach. I’m not exactly the role model type.”
“You don’t say.”
He bumps my shoulder, and my skin is alight in goose bumps when he continues, “My mom’s a coach. She played on the Houston Comets, winning three championships. Now she pretends it’s her grand calling or whatever, but I think she’s trying to convince herself she’s found meaning after the glory days.”
He speaks so openly, no jokes or facade. It’s refreshing.
“Coaches are like directors, you know? They create legacies. A lot of people don’t know their names, but they decide if the film or their athletes turn out good or not. Once they’re ready to hang up their hat, they get to pass on their knowledge. It’s not all bad.”
He looks away. “Yeah, well, following her footsteps into coaching? That’s too conventional for my taste. Maybe I’ll inherit my father’s work ethic, though with my dyslexia I doubt I have another Viggle empire in me.”
“I think you can do anything you want. Be kind and patient with Em, like you have been with me, and she’ll warm up to you in no time.”
“Thank you, Reese.”
I sense he wants to change the subject. “So, are you and your teammate…?”
“Ancient history. A fleeting thing, like usual. What happened with Quentin wasn’t about that; it was about choices. Everyone deserves to write their own story.”
“That’s admirable. You know, I’ve never…” I try to find the word. Interested? Captivated by? Maybe mildly obsessed with? “Uh, shared biscuits with anyone who’s openly…” I trail off.
“Interested in women and men?”
When I nod, he shifts closer, pulling at his gray hoodie.
“I don’t like labels. To me, people are people, and enjoying them is part of life. It’s another part of who I am. Like fencing or”—his eyes lock onto mine with predatory focus—“having an overprotective streak. Does it bother you?”
“No! Absolutely not,” I confess. Heat floods my cheeks as I recover my composure. “I mean, where I grew up, people didn’t talk about these things.” My fingers trace nervous patterns on the sun-warmed hood, buying time. “Actually…” I hesitate, then offer my own vulnerability like a peace offering. “My best friend Cleo was my first kiss.”
“Yeah?”
“I was fifteen,” I admit. “The studio was pushing for on-screen romance plots. I didn’t want my first kiss to be with some twenty-something actor pretending to be sixteen. So, Cleo and I made a pact—something real, just for us. Not for the cameras.”
“Smart girl. Having your firsts stolen from you isn’t right.”
“That’s Hollywood for you; they steal all your firsts.” I gather my courage. “My first love was no different.”
He narrows his eyes. “Was it that guy, Ricky something?”
I nod. “Ricky Tribbiani. My first real boyfriend.”
“There’s a but, isn’t there?”
“We were the media’s it couple. Then I got an award for the movie we shot together, and he didn’t…” I curl my fingers against the metal. “Stole away my first moment winning an award. Had to make it about himself.” I cut myself off, the old wound still raw.
“Fuck him.” The words come out as a growl.
“The worst part?” I whisper, watching a seabird wheel overhead, free and untamed. “When he broke up with me, he said he was only dating me to advance his career. Just another stepping stone. How ridiculous is that? I should’ve known better.”
“Bullshit,” he bites out. “You didn’t deserve that. And you were a fucking child—he should’ve known better than to fucking use you.”
“It’s not only him.” I wrap my arms around myself, fighting a shiver that has nothing to do with the breeze. “Decades in this industry teaches you that too many men see young actresses as means to an end. That’s why all my boundaries matter to me, from the no-fraternization clause to keeping myself focused on my career.”
“So all those rumors about you and Jaxon Elio?”
“Like you said, there’s more to the story.” I echo his earlier words.
When those golden eyes turn to me, his smile turns wicked, promising trouble. “Your turn. I want three regrets.”
“I’m the one giving homework here.”
“Come on, humor me. You want me to get a perfect score, don’t you? All three regrets? So I’ll give you my last one if you give me three in return.”
“Nothing exciting,” I admit, suddenly fascinated by my hands, aware of how tame my rebellions must seem to someone like him. “Talking in class in fourth grade?”
“That’s it?” His knee brushes mine, and neither of us moves away. “Come on, there has to be more.”
I bite back my smile, but his energy draws it out of me. “Well, in fifth grade, I carved ‘Mrs. Tracy is amazing’ into a picnic table because some kids were being mean to her.”
His laugh wraps around me like a caress. “You vandalized school property to defend a teacher’s honor? Actually kind of perfect.”
“Don’t mock me!” I snort-laugh, loud. My hand flies up to cover my nose like I can take it back.
A slow grin spreads across his face. “Adorable.”
“It was not.”
“Oh, it absolutely was.” His voice is all amusement, but he doesn’t push, only tucks the moment away like it’s something to keep.
I peek at him through my fingers. “Everyone thought I had a crush on my teacher.”
“I had my own Mrs. Tracy. Ms. Austin, my art teacher before boarding school. Ancient as a dinosaur, but man, the way she talked about art had me completely starry-eyed. She’d tell these stories about partying with Fonda, and she claimed she dated Bowie. Total nonsense, but I ate it up.” He chuckles at the memory. “Thought I was so grown up and sophisticated getting to hear all her tales, you know?”
“So why didn’t you become Mr. Austin?” I tease.
“Wasn’t long before I realized my love for her was teenage hormones,” he teases. “Second one, Reese.”
I ponder. “Not letting myself off my own leash. I was so focused on being perfect, on being a good role model, that I never got to live. Never got to do anything. No outlandish stories followed me around, and I’m grateful for that—the media is ruthless. But maybe being known as unproblematic isn’t something that fits me anymore, especially since I’m turning thirty next year.”
“Sounds like we’re both in a bit of an identity crisis.”
The weight of his words settles in my chest. He sees whatever small fire I keep hidden there. The sun is high above us. An hour here has slipped into three.
Dante pulls out tobacco and papers. “Mind if I smoke? Or do you find the smell distracting?”
I know.
Smoking is bad for me.
Secondhand smoke is bad for me.
Dante is bad for me.
But I find myself saying, “It’s fine.”
“It’s a bad habit, I know.” I observe his practiced motions, cataloging each movement like I would for a role. He seals the paper with a flick of his tongue that I absolutely do not fixate on.
“Then why do it?”
“Helps take the edge off,” he says with that devil-may-care smile, lighting up his cigarette. The smoke curls away from me as he exhales. “Sometimes you need something to ground you when everything else is moving too fast.”
“Do you smoke while you’re competing?” I ask, watching the way his fingers dance with the lighter.
He barks out a laugh. “God no, my coach would skin me alive.”
“I find it hard to believe anyone could make you do anything you don’t want to.”
“Wait until you meet my coach,” he says. “He’d beat me with my own saber if he caught me slacking.” The way he grins suggests it’s not entirely a joke.
His lips curl around the end of the cigarette, Adam’s apple bobbing as he inhales.
I was part of the D.A.R.E. campaign right after Clubhouse . Smoking anything was an absolute no, but why does he make something so deadly look tempting?
The sight ignites something molten and rebellious in my chest, making me want to shatter every careful boundary I’ve built.
“Let me try,” I breathe, reaching for the cigarette with deliberate defiance.
“Absolutely not.”
“Since when do you get to decide what I do?” I lean in, thrilled by my own boldness, and get close enough to catch the spicy scent of his cologne mixed with smoke.
“I am not going to be the one to corrupt you.”
“Maybe I want to be corrupted,” I challenge, letting my good-girl mask slip further. “Consider it another thing to add to my character research.”
“Reese.” He says my name like a prayer and a warning combined. “No.”
The denial stirs something in me.
I pull off my baseball cap with deliberate slowness, letting my hair cascade down in waves. The motion reminds me of a thousand romance scenes I’ve filmed, but this time there are no cameras, no directors calling cut.
Just Dante Hastings and his adamant need to say no to me.
I turn on the Reese Sinclair.
I remove my sunglasses, hooking them into the collar of my sweatshirt. There’s a hunger in his eyes. I lift my chin to meet his gaze, and my lips curve into a smile that was drilled into me during intimacy training. This smile is all heat and promise. This is the one that gets that million-dollar kiss for the cameras.
“Dante…” I mewl. My fingers trail along the hood between us. “Please?”
He freezes, the cigarette trembling, forgotten between his fingers. “Are you—Christ, are you serious right now?”
“What?” I whisper, gravitating closer until I can count each of his dark eyelashes. Every rational thought about maintaining professional boundaries evaporates like the smoke I’m desperate to taste.
“That…” His voice comes out rough, despairing, as he gestures vaguely at my face with his free hand. I can see him fighting for control, and something wild inside me wants to make him lose it completely. “That whole act.”
“Is it working?” The words come out breathy, challenging.
“Not even close,” he lies.
My body hovers above his, blocking the sun from his face. A sharp movement shifts beneath his sweats, and the sight of it sends a rush of heat through me. His composure is cracking for once.
I trace my finger along his chest, watching as his breath catches, ragged and uneven. “Come on, let this be the third thing I regret.”
I wet my lips slowly, and his jaw clenches as he bites his lip.
“Fuck, Reese,” he breathes. “How does anyone say no to you?”
I shrug, eyeing the cigarette between his fingers. I swear the birds above could hear the pounding of my heart, but I stay in character, liking the way she feels.
Powerful. Sexy. All things I forgot I could be.
He breaks, taking a long drag from his cigarette. And then one of his large, calloused hands lands gently on my jaw, guiding me closer. There’s a tenderness in the way he touches me, as if I could break with the slightest pressure.
The little game I decided to play shatters under his touch. Where did the acting end and this need for him begin? I want this, want him, more than I care to admit, with a hunger that excites and frightens me.
“Open up,” he says.
I close my eyes, my lips parting.
Dante’s nose brushes mine; my lips tingle at his proximity.
He’s going to kiss me.
He exhales, warmth caressing my lips, the smoke curling around us. It’s not a kiss, but he’s giving me exactly what I asked for. And I like it more than I should.
“Breathe in,” he whispers hoarsely.
I do as he says, inhaling bitter smoke, but it burns, and I break away coughing. “Heavens, that’s awful,” I gasp, eyes watering, even if I’m already craving more—of the smoke, of his touch, of the way everything feels real.
“Told you,” he teases, but his thumb tenderly brushes away a tear.
“You should quit, immediately.” I laugh.
He wets a finger with his lips and presses it against the ember without breaking our gaze. The sizzle slices through the quiet afternoon air, and my pulse races. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
“I’ll think about it.”