“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.Dysmeaning ‘difficult,’lexismeaning ‘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 collapsebecause I confused fiction with reality. I don’t fall for costars. Not again. Not with everything at stake.
Chapter 8
Dante
Through the on-settraining gym window, there she is, already lost in her stretching routine.
