“If I’d known you were a fan…I could have arranged something weeks ago. Called in a favor,” he says.
“Don’t tease me,” I warn. “Her vision, what she did with Saoirse Ronan and Florence Pugh, even Margot Robbie—it’s everything I dream of.”
Dante tilts his head, eyeing me. “Who says I’m teasing?”
“It’s your default setting.”
“Not wrong,” he says, his voice flat. “But your answer disappoints me. The fact that working under a woman director is some rare, coveted thing is fucked up, especially when you’re making films about women’s lives. But that’s obvious. I want to know what you want. Really want.”
I let the question settle in my chest, where it mingles with all those late-night dreams I barely let myself acknowledge. The ones where I’m not reciting someone else’s vision but crafting my own. Where I’m not the face on the poster but the force behind the lens.
“I want to own my own production company and direct movies,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can catch them. It’s the first time I’ve admitted it to anyone. Not even Heather. Or Cleo. “I’ve been dreaming about it since I was sixteen, spending more hours analyzing director’s commentaries than actually watching the films. But there’s this gap between knowing how something works and actually making it work yourself.”
“All those years on set isn’t only observation,” he counters. “You see things others miss. Like on Thursday, you suggested changing the blocking in scene forty-three? Pure director’s instinct.”
He noticed? The tiny change I’d suggested, having the villager crumple inward with despair instead of lashing out in rage when Robyn delivers the stolen goods? It was such a small note, but he’d caught it.
“Though if we’re talking actual directing experience,” I add, feeling oddly exposed, “my crowning achievement was terrorizing the neighborhood children into performingThe Wizard of Ozwhen I was eight. Ten tiny actors, including an extremely unwilling infant we cast as a flying monkey. Their parents still bring it up at block parties, though I maintain that the baby’s performance was Oscar-worthy.”
“Fuck me,” he says, letting out a low laugh that makes something twist in my stomach. “I did that same show. Let me guess, you were Dorothy.”
“Guilty.”
“I played the Tin Man,” he says, and the air between us shifts, like tectonic plates grinding beneath the surface. “Typecasting, probably. All metal, no heart.”
I recite the line before I can stop myself: “‘Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.’”
“‘But I still want one.’” His words hang in the air, delicate and dangerous. I understand, suddenly and completely, that we’re not talking aboutThe Wizard of Ozanymore.
The emerald chain catches the light, and I think of all the times I’ve said no to the things I wanted, afraid of wanting them too much. My fingers trace the glass case, leaving crescents of condensation.
“Paulie?” I call out to the back, and they appear. “I’ll take the chain.”
Maybe sometimes the bravest thing isn’t refusing to want but letting yourself want anyway, even when it might break you.
Chapter 20
Reese
“You’ll never escape!”Dante crashes through the forest, shirtless and chasing after me. “The king’s gold belongs in the royal treasury!”
I spin around, my heart racing from both the chase and the way his dark eyes lock onto mine. I’m enjoying this pursuit more than is rational for a living, breathing human woman being chased by a man with a weapon through the woods.
“Oh, but it belongs to the people, dear Sheriff!” I call back with a laugh. “Consider it wealth redistribution!”
Shadows dance across Dante’s shoulders as he moves between the trees. We took our training outside today to rehearse for tomorrow’s scene.
“When I catch you, you’ll be hanged for this treachery!”
“Ifyou catch me!” I tease. Pine needles crunch beneath my boots as I dart between trees. “And that’s quite a big if, wouldn’t you say? The forest is my home, Sheriff. You’re just a visitor here!”
“Curse you and your tricks, Hood!” Even in character, there’s something about the way he carries himself that’s irresistible.
I weave between the towering redwoods, my pulse racing with more than just exertion. “Come on, Sheriff. I thought you were supposed to be some big protector.”
His footsteps grow closer, heavy boots thundering against the forest floor. He’s catching up. I pivot, executing the choreographed fall we’ve practiced, letting my momentum carry me backward.
“I have you now!” His roar echoes through the forest as he tumbles with me. The world spins, and my back hits the ground with a soft thud.
