Dante’s expression remains steady.
Every instinct honed from years in this industry screams at me to stand up, say thank you, and return to my cabin. To maintain professional distance.
But I don’t.
“So you were going to try and tackle that head-on. Alone? At the ass-crack of dawn? That’s pretty fucking badass, fighter.”
He manages to pull a small laugh out of me. “There’s a scene coming up.”
“The raft scene? When Robyn dives in for her sword?”
“Yeah,” I manage, surprised he remembers. “Been reading the script after all?”
“Professor Sinclair told me I can’t come to class unprepared anymore.”
Ignore him!
I wrap my arms around myself, suppressing a shiver. “You heard Felix last week when he mentioned bringing in a double, but…” I trail off, hating how vulnerable I sound.
“You’re obviously too stubborn for that?”
“I need to do this myself,” I say, and he nods like he understands.
“Maybe next time you try to conquer your fears, you could start slower? Like dunking your head underwater in the bath?”
“What do you mean, my plan to walk into a freezing lake in my pajamas wasn’t brilliant?”
“It is an interesting choice of swimwear,” he teases.
We let the silence linger between us, neither of us rushing to go. It’s not uncomfortable like it usually would be with a fellow actor, chattering about himself or showing pure indifference.
Instead, Dante studies me with an intensity that makes my cheeks burn, like sunlight on cold skin. His eyes track every micro-expression, every shift of my posture, and I sink deeper into whatever this is between us.
I’m comfortable.
And that makes it dangerous. I already have my circle: Cleo, Heather, Ramsey, and my loving parents.
That’s all I need.
I can’t like him. I just can’t. It’s not the no-fraternization clause. It’s not even Ricky, though maybe some small part of it is.
It’s the fact that I have everything to lose, and I can’t afford to throw this dream away on some silly schoolgirl infatuation with a boy who looks like he’d be a good time.
“You’re under a lot of stress, aren’t you?” he asks.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“There’s a stretch of coast up here I used to visit with my family. You should go. Definitely nothing pool-like about it. It’s different from the Gulf, but peaceful in its own way.”
“Sounds nice,” I admit, “but it’s impossible to leave set. Between my bodyguard and the paparazzi…” I twist my fingers into the ends of my hair, slowly exhaling. “I can’t really get up and go places. Not alone. Not without it becoming a thing.” I hate how pretentious it sounds, but it’s true. I can’t step outside to get my mail without someone getting a shot of me.
“Even though we’re nearly seven hundred miles from LA?”
“These reporters, they find out everything.” He nods, eyebrows crinkling in thought. “Well, I should get back and dry off,” I say and shrug off his jacket to return it to him.
“Keep it.”
I look down at the striped cotton pajamas clinging to my skin, suddenly aware of how much more vulnerable this feels than any costume I wear on set. There, I have layers of makeup and fabric to hide behind.
