“It is. But that’s what made it interesting, bringing something different to it. The sponsors liked that, actually. This whole thing”—he gestures to himself —“it made the sport feel more accessible somehow.”
“Meanwhile, I’ve been basically the same since I was onThe Sweet Lifewith Cleo,” I admit, fidgeting with my necklace.
His eyes follow the movement, lingering. “We all wear armor. Yours happens to be pearls instead of silver.”
I blush, and my eyes flick to one of his silver rings. I’m pretty sure it’s the one I decided to kiss last weekend. “What’s the story behind this one? You always have it on.”
“Got it after winning my first tournament,” he says. “Nothing special. Sterling silver from some pawn shop when I was fifteen. But I keep it on.” His voice is flat, matter-of-fact, though something in the way he touches the ring suggests there’s emotion there.
“It may be one of my favorites,” I admit and look back down at the velvet box. “Although…”
I spot a delicate piece and lift it up. It’s titanium, with a lustrous pearl shell like a precious accent. “This is beautiful too.”
He gives me his hand, palm facing down, and only the middle finger remains empty. “Let’s try it on.”
The ring shimmers. My fingers tremble as I take his hand in mine, steadying it at the wrist.
I trace the collection of rings already adorning his fingers. When I finally slide the new ring onto his middle finger, the moment stretches, sweet and thick like the summer twilight back in NOLA. His entire body goes still, and suddenly this hidden jewelry vault feels far too small to hold all the things we’re not saying.
“There,” I say, pulling away.
“I’ll take it. What can I get for you.” It isn’t a question.
“No.” I wave my hand dismissively. “I have a vault full of stuff that just sits there, gathering very expensive dust.” Besides, accepting jewelry from a man like him feels dangerous. It would be red flag number…well, I’ve lost count, and that says all I need to know.
“Look at you, pretending you don’t want anything when I saw you eyeing those chains earlier. The one with the emeralds is quite beautiful, no?”
“It’s not really me.”
“Says who? Come on, tell me what you want.”
You to push me against these counters and run your pretty fingers across my skin until I forget my own name.
“I don’t know…”
“You deserve to let someone treat you to something nice, don’t you think? Besides, Felix has been a prick all week. A beautiful thing can brighten up a day.” He says the last words with a weight I try not to read into.
“Don’t remind me of him.” I bristle, the moment shattered. “He’s been even more impossible this week, and I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Heard him threatening another stunt double.”
“Some of the studio execs are visiting set next week, and Felix has gone full helicopter parent, convinced they’ll yank our funding faster than he can say action.” The words taste bitter in my mouth. “He’s hovering over my every move, but he won’t actually tell me what I’m doing wrong anymore. Just hits me with disappointed sighs and groans like some frustrated bulldog.”
“Whatever that prick says, this film works because of you.” Dante’s dark eyes hold mine. “Trust me. Your control is perfect. Every mark precise. Trust your body. Trust your instincts. You’re not acting the part. What were your words? You are the leading lady.” My heart expands in my chest. “Felix wants you weak,” he says bluntly. “I’ve noticed that he’s barely shooting your corrected scenes. You okay with that?”
I hate how he sees me so clearly. “Obviously not. But what am I supposed to do? I’monly the actress, darling.” I imitate Felix’s nasal voice. “I’m not codirecting, not producing. This whole production, this director—I’m drowning in pretense.” I exhale sharply, the sound echoing off gleaming display cases. “After so many years of being Hollywood’s perfect little porcelain doll, I’m exhausted from being sculpted by some other man’s vision, like clay in hands that don’t understand what they’re molding.”
“Have you never worked with a female director?”
“Sadly, no. But what a dream it would be to work with someone like Amara Bellamy—”
“Amara?”
“Her work is revolutionary,” I press on.
“Mari’s actually staying on my yacht. Old friend from Princeton theater days.”
My mind conjures images of them lounging on deck, sharing inside jokes and creative visions. The surge of possessiveness catches me off guard. I have no right to feel territorial.
