No.
I do not need to spend time looking at cliché bad boys on yachts. But as my thumb hovers over the delete button, another photo loads and—oh.
Oh.
I swallow hard. Well, there’s nothing cliché about this.
Is that a thigh tattoo?
I pinch the screen, bringing it closer, my pulse quickening.
Dante lounges on the yacht deck, sun-drenched and effortless. His linen shorts ride up enough to reveal sharp lines of black ink against his thigh. He’s all lazy sprawl and long limbs. Over six feet of infuriating perfection. Wind ruffles the dark curls that tease the nape of his neck. A half-unbuttoned shirt frames abs that look painted on. I try to count how many abs there are but can’t make them out in the blurry photo. The skin on the backs of my arms pebbles.
My phone pings, and I swipe away from the photos so fast I drop the device.
Professional, Reese.
Be professional!
Chapter 5
Reese
August 16th
HOLLYWOOD’S LATEST GENDER-SWAP GIMMICK: Felix Langford’sRobyn HoodTrains Pretty Face to Swing Swords in Studio’s Desperate Bid for Relevance
The Big PineLodge thrums with movement. Outside, towering redwoods cast long August shadows across the old summer campgrounds. The set crew converted this building into a makeshift training gym. Mirrors line the walls above a patchwork of exercise mats.
My muscles burn as I lunge forward, attempting a direct thrust. The wooden waster sword feels impossibly heavy in my grip.
While we are filming, I’ll use a lightweight steel sword, but for training I have to use these heavy wooden waster swords. They’re designed to build strength, though right now, all they’re doing is making my arms scream.
After six weeks of practicing sword forms in empty air, holding an actual weapon feels jarring. I’ve done the work—grueling cardio and strength training in LA, hours of visualization exercises, mostly just me chanting Michelle Obama arms with every bicep curl—but I’m still not strong enough for this. The waster sword is far heavier than the two-pound dumbbells Nick had me using to tone my arms.
My breath comes in ragged pants behind the too-tight headgear Nick insists I wear “for liability reasons.” He watches me with thinly veiled impatience.
In the mirror, my sweat-darkened tank top, flyaway hair, and bulky protective gear make me look like a kid playing dress-up in a world of professionals.
“Focus on your stance, dude,” Nick says, checking his phone for what must be the fifth time in ten minutes. “Try it again.”
I reset and attempt the attack again.Arm not extended enough.And again.Balance is off.And again.Lunged too early.
I’ve challenged myself countless times in my career. Yet here I am, completely unable to execute basic fight choreography.
The worst part?He’shere.
Dante Hastings.
Across the room, he moves with ease and precision. His waster sword cuts through air with controlled power. Every movement purposeful.
Stop looking!He’s nothing but a distraction—an infuriatingly skilled distraction who’s clearly never struggled through training.
In my strongly worded email to casting—which went unanswered—I specifically noted that the classic sheriff should be played by an unpleasant everyman. Not someone whose hamstrings have their own hamstrings.
I suppress an eyeroll. The isolated training without the crew has been absurd, but, in the director’s words, we have to protect our lead. Tomorrow I’ll face my first real combat scenes with thefull cast, going straight into filming. I must nail it perfectly on the first take.
I grit my teeth and try the direct thrust attack one more time, but Nick sidesteps effortlessly. My fingers tighten around the sword’s hilt as frustration builds.
