38. Reese
Chapter 38
Reese
I’ve spent the last half hour wandering the set processing the loss of my Diamond Essence campaign. These days, my emotions feel like waves. Sometimes gentle, sometimes overwhelming. Instead of texting Dante to come over so we can lose ourselves in our pattern of mutual distraction, I find myself drawn to his cabin.
I’m at his window now—yes, officially crossing into light stalking territory—watching him on his sofa. He’s got his headphones on, lips moving silently to what I know must be next week’s script revisions.
Something deep inside me aches watching him like this—so focused, so earnest. I love the way his hair falls into his eyes before he threads his fingers through it, how his entire face transforms when he smiles. And heavens, the things I once found insufferable—his cockiness and ego—I now see for what they are: a shield, hiding the soft, fierce, sexy, intelligent, funny man underneath.
I lift my fist to his door and knock.
Rap. Rap. Rap.
Our knock.
“Look what the night dragged in,” he says softly, leaning against the doorframe. His sweats cling in all the right places, and his oversized sweatshirt looks like it could swallow me whole.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say. The words feel heavy with everything I’m not saying: I needed to see you. I needed to not be alone.
He opens the door wider, a gentle “Come here” making my heart flutter.
Inside, a Diptyque candle flickers—the Pekin one he knows I love. The scent of magnolia, sandalwood, tea. It’s so typically him, this love for the luxurious things in life, this need to make everything a little more special. I pretend to find it excessive, but really, I love how he turns ordinary moments into something worth remembering.
“What are you working on?” I ask, though I already know.
“Next week’s scenes. Gotta be prepared for our three scenes together.” His kiss is quick, tender, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is.
“Lucky us.”
“You know,” he says, “you probably can’t sleep because your bed is tragic.”
“Oh, really?”
He abandons his script on the couch, leading me to his bedroom, where his ridiculous king-sized bed dominates the space. He claims it’s because he’s tall, but I’m certain it’s because he sleeps like a starfish. Though I’ve never had the privilege of finding out.
The amber lighting makes everything feel dreamlike. The floorboards creak beneath my feet.
“Get in,” he says, pulling back the duvet. I slide between his sheets, which are soft as clouds.
The mattress dips under his weight, and I instinctively curl into him. His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer, his lips pressing a quiet kiss to the top of my head. He’s radiating like a furnace, and I melt into him.
We breathe in sync, his chest rising and falling against mine, as if he knows I don’t have the words yet and isn’t in any rush to hear them.
Four. Seven. Eight.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks softly.
“It’s…” I trace the tattoos on his forearm. “This industry can be so isolating. You’re constantly surrounded by people, but it’s like being behind glass. Everyone’s looking in, but no one’s really seeing you.” I pause, feeling silly. “Goodness, I sound ungrateful, don’t I? Poor little actress with her perfect life.”
“Hey,” he says, fingers finding my chin. “Your feelings aren’t less valid because other people might envy your life.”
“Sometimes I feel like I’m playing a part even when the cameras aren’t rolling.”
“I get that,” he says. “But not with me?”
“No,” I whisper, surprised by how true it feels. “Not with you. You make everything feel real.”
Dante makes me feel seen in a way that is both terrifying and exhilarating.
“Remember when you hated me?” he asks, amusement coloring his voice. “If someone had told me at that first table read we’d end up here…”
“I didn’t hate you,” I protest weakly. “I was…”
“Professionally skeptical?” His laugh rumbles through his chest, and I press my ear closer, wanting to memorize the sound. When did I get so lucky?
“You wouldn’t share an apple with me,” he reminds me.
“I made it up to you with the apple the day before I cut my hair.”
“Can’t believe that was over a month ago.”
“But I am sorry for before. For all those walls I built and the assumptions I made without giving you a chance.”
His touch is gossamer against my jaw. “Don’t be. Can’t exactly blame you, can I? We’re like two different kinds of fire,” he says softly. “You burn steady and deep, while I’m all flash and crackle. Sometimes we clash, but that doesn’t mean we don’t understand each other.”
I nestle closer, drawn to him like a magnet finding metal. “Listen to you, being so poetic,” I murmur into his chest and nudge my nose to the bookcase across the room. “And here I thought those books were props.”
“They are, actually,” he confesses with a laugh. “I mostly listen to audiobooks, especially when I’m on the road. Though nothing compares to when you read to me.”
“I could, you know,” I offer, feeling brave in the quiet of his room. “When we’re away from set. Maybe start with Francesca and Paolo?”
“Or Dorothea and Will,” he suggests, naming characters I don’t recognize. “From Middlemarch .”
“I’d like that.” The silence between us feels comfortable, like a well-worn sweater. “You know, you always surprise me.”
“Same here. When we met, I thought we would have nothing in common,” he says, drawing lazy patterns on my back, and I melt. “But it’s deeper than that, isn’t it? It’s how we see things, feel things. We don’t need matching life stories to understand each other.”
The truth of it hits me in waves.
“It’s not like those romance movies I’ve done,” I say, slipping into my Boston accent from Heart in Boston . “Where it’s all, Oh, my god, we both love blue and have dogs and eat lobster rolls! It must be fate! ”
“Missed my watchlist.”
“Flopped spectacularly.”
“Show me more accents?” he asks.
“Sugar,” I drawl in my thickest southern belle, fighting sleep, “we both know which one makes you weak.”
“Right you are, darlin’,” he attempts, failing dramatically.
A familiar feeling floods into my veins. That dizzy, teenage feeling I thought I’d outgrown. After Ricky, I’d convinced myself closing off my heart was the mature choice. The professional choice. But lying here, I can’t deny how desperately I’ve craved this kind of connection.
Maybe it’s ironic that as a romance actress, I’ve acted out countless versions of love. But those were just scripts, carefully choreographed moments of perfection. This thing with Dante feels beautifully imperfect.
Being here with him, I let myself believe in the cliché that sometimes things do fall into place.
“You know, I like that we’re so different. It’s like we shouldn’t make sense, but we do. My parents were high school sweethearts who grew up on the same street. Practically carbon copies of each other.”
“When you meet my parents, you’ll see a different kind of love story. Probably more similar to us,” he says.
My stomach does this slow, pleasant flip at the casual way he says when you meet my parents , like it’s inevitable. Like we have a future. “You think?”
“Tech geek meets basketball star? On paper, they’re from different worlds.”
“And they work?”
“Thirty years and counting.” He yawns against my hair.
“What’s their secret?”
He absentmindedly brushes over the short strands at my nape. “Well, besides the fact that my dad still looks at my mom like she’s Morticia Addams.”
“Every woman’s dream, finding her Gomez,” I sigh.
“Who wouldn’t want their own Morticia? But really, I think it’s their dedication. To each other, to their people—Mom to her team, Dad to everyone at Viggle. Our holidays were always full of this chosen family they built.”
“I get that,” I mumble, sleep starting to blur my words. “My family’s the same way, close to our neighbors and friends.”
“But there’s something beautiful about how they fit together. They had this ritual of syncing their calendars every Sunday night. They always prioritized carving out time for each other like it was a game they were intent on winning. I personally think, and forget how this is going to sound”—he pauses dramatically—“it was like foreplay for them.”
“Oh god! Like a love language made of Viggle Calendar invites?” I ask.
“Exactly. They built their life in the spaces between commitments. No phones on vacation, just presence. Just them. They’re different in almost every way. Dad couldn’t dribble a basketball if his life depended on it, Mom still prints out her emails, but they’ve created this beautiful thing together.”
I draw patterns across his chest, quieting the restless stir inside of me. “What if your family thinks I’m too Hollywood?”
He takes hold of my hand. “The woman who spent three hours perfecting a single kick because it didn’t feel authentic enough , who still tries to twirl her hair weeks after she cut it?”
“Promise to never stop teasing me like this? I think it keeps me grounded.” I never thought I’d find someone who could see through my carefully constructed layers, who’d make me want to be seen. But here he is, making me laugh at myself, making me real.
“As long as you’ll let me.”
“They’ll see what I see,” he murmurs.
“Which is?”
“Someone who makes everything better. Brighter.”
He kisses my head, and I burrow closer, feeling brave. “Come to New Orleans for Christmas?” I whisper. “My mama’s gumbo will change your life, and I know this amazing chef at Hotel Monteleone who does private dinners overlooking the river. Plus,” I add, “I need backup when Aunt Mabel starts her inevitable interrogation about my biological clock.”
“Throwing me to the southern wolves already?”
“Only the ones who make transcendent pie crust.”
“Then I’m yours,” he mumbles, already half asleep.
We lie there a little while longer until his breathing deepens beneath my cheek. I should go back to my cabin, probably.
“Dante?” I whisper. No response.
Instead, I let myself sink deeper into his warmth.