My jaw clenches.
I can’t watch this anymore.
“Enough.” I step closer. “Your stance is killing me. That’s your foundation. Without it, you’ll never maintain that blade while delivering those eloquent speeches of yours.”
“This is the best I can do,” she sighs, her southern lilt emerging in her frustration.
“May I?” I gesture toward her, already anticipating how the perfectionist in her will bristle at correction. Surprisingly, she nods.
I’m about to touch Reese Sinclair. I bite my cheek and inhale deeply.
Then I’m standing behind her, my hands hovering above her hips. My body responds to the proximity. My blood rushes in strange patterns beneath my skin. I use my foot to nudge her feet apart. She yields without resistance.
“Rasstav’ nogi,” I command.
“Huh?” She turns, her lips pursed in confusion.
“Sorry—fucking habit from my fencing coach. He trains us in Russian half the time,” I explain, regaining my composure. “Spread your legs wider, weight back,” I instruct, keeping my voice low near the top of her head. “Relax. You’re too tense.” I brush my fingers along the back of her neck, and a shiver rolls down her spine.
A soft exhale escapes her lips before she swivels around, brown eyes flaring.
“I wouldn’t be tense if you weren’t hovering over me like some…” She searches for the right word.
“Like?”
“Like some, I don’t know, know-it-all!”
“I’ve been called worse.” The corner of my mouth quirks up as she bristles. “Usually by much scarier people than America’s sweetheart.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
“You know your accent slips when you’re frustrated,” I note. “It’s charming.”
“It does not.” She scowls. “Let’s try again. Please.”
The transformation is fascinating—one moment she’s all controlled poise, the next she’s barely contained.
“Fine, but you’re not going to like my advice.” She waits for me to continue. I don’t break her stare. “You’re fighting yourself. I see how hard you’re trying, but that’s what’s holding you back. Trust your instincts. Square your shoulders. Loosen your arms and put a soft bend in your knees.”
“I am doing all of that, I promise. But trying to remember the lines, the footwork, where the camera is going to be, and making sure I don’t block my face, on top of your—” She cuts herself off, flustered.
“Okay.” I want to make her see what I see. “Let’s simplify. Just the movement first.”
She exhales sharply and centers herself.
“When you move, engage your core first, your obliques, then your back.” I give her lats a playful pinch. “Here.”
She groans again, not a pretty one, but something bordering on a vexed cry. Maybe I should stop fucking around. “I’ve never struggled this much with a role before.” She collapses onto the mats.
I sink down next to her. There’s that determined look in her eyes, the same one from set and the table read.
“I know what it’s like when everyone else makes it look effortless and you’re grinding twice as hard.” Then, because I can’t help myself—and because she’s too damn serious for her own good—I lay on the thickest cowboy drawl I can manage. “But sugar, you gotta get back on your horse and ride. Cowgirls don’t cry.”
She blinks, a genuine smile tugging at her lips despite her obvious attempt to maintain distance. “Did you just quoteHeartland Heritageto me?”
I shrug. “When I said my sisters were big fans, I should’ve admitted that I was too. For a year straight, they couldn’t stop saying that line.” Neither could I.
“I’m flattered,” she says carefully, her professional mask slipping back into place. “I’d be happy to sign something for them like you mentioned. Just not during training.”
