You Had Me at Hola

by Alexis Daria

  “I liked the one where he was an old-timey sheriff.” Michelle fanned herself. “He cut quite the dashing figure in that uniform.”

  “Okay, that’s e—” Jasmine began, but Ava cut her off.

  “He played a villain recently, and I liked his beard. But I thought they killed him off too soon.”

  “Ava!” Michelle’s jaw dropped, aghast. “Spoilers!”

  Ava shrugged, entirely unapologetic. “If you spent more time with Abuela, you’d be caught up.”

  While they went back and forth about Ashton’s best roles, Jasmine mulled over this latest news. Ashton Suarez was a solid fixture in telenovelas, and even though Jasmine’s Spanish wasn’t good enough for her to follow them fully, she’d seen him on Esperanza’s TV plenty of times over the years. He was a good-looking man, even if he had a tendency to overact sometimes.

  Not that Jasmine was one to talk. Her role on The Glamour Squad, a newer soap centered around a modeling agency, had required a level of melodramatics even her telenovela-loving abuela found a little ridiculous. Still, Jasmine’s back-from-the-dead trophy wife character, Cordelia, had stolen the show. Fans had loved Cordelia’s forbidden romance with Keane, the fashion photographer with a gambling addiction. For Jasmine, Cordelia would always hold a special place in her heart—the character had earned her a Daytime Emmy nom and won her the role of Carmen.

  Never mind that she didn’t speak Spanish. Jasmine’s accent was perfect, even if her conversation skills left something to be desired. The last time she’d tried to gossip with her grandmother in Spanish, Esperanza had complained Jasmine was hurting her ears.

  Her younger brother, Jeremy, had teased her when he found out she had to speak Spanish for the role, but he shut up real quick when Jasmine pointed out he knew even less of the language than she did. While Spanish had been Jasmine’s father’s first language, her mother, who was Puerto Rican and Filipina, knew very little Spanish or Tagalog, so English had been the main language in their home. Working on this show was going to be like a crash course in language immersion, and Jasmine sincerely hoped she was up to the challenge.

  Michelle raised a hand, breaking into her thoughts. “Hold on. I’m getting an idea.”

  Jasmine groaned. Michelle’s ideas were often brilliant but just as often got the three of them into trouble. Like the time they’d snuck out to a concert in New Jersey on a school night and missed the last bus back. They’d had to call their oldest cousin, Sammy, to pick them up. His silence had been expensive.

  “I want to hear this idea,” said Ava.

  Of course she did. Enabler. Jasmine made a face at her. “I don’t.”

  But Michelle was not to be deterred when she was in possession of an idea. “Abuela’s eightieth birthday is coming up. If you could get Ashton Suarez to come to the party as your guest, Abuela would be over the moon. She’d make enough pasteles to last you the rest of your life.”

  Biting her lip, Jasmine couldn’t disagree. It wouldn’t just make her grandmother’s year. It would make her whole decade.

  “And if you bring him, I absolve you of party-planning duties,” Ava added.

  “I didn’t realize I had any party-planning duties.”

  “Of course you do. Everyone does.”

  “What about Tony? He’s in London.”

  Ava shrugged. “Don’t worry, I’ll find something for him to do. All the cousins have to help.”

  How many times had Jasmine heard those words? “Everyone has to help” had been one of the guiding forces in her life for as long as she could remember, going back to before she was born. Despite whatever fights or petty squabbles might be going on among the members, when the time called for it, the Rodriguez family banded together. And Esperanza’s birthday was going to be an event the family would be talking about for years to come.

  All the more reason not to bring an unknown entity into the mix. But for her abuela, Jasmine was willing to do just about anything. Including asking her new costar for a potentially embarrassing favor.

  Maybe Ava and Michelle were right. Maybe it was time to move back.

  The ceiling creaked, followed by the sound of steady footsteps overhead, moving toward the stairs.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” Jasmine hissed. “I haven’t even met the guy yet. He could turn out to be a total asshole.” So many guys in the entertainment industry did, after all. Like McIntyre.

  “Rumor has it he’s kind of full of himself,” Ava mused. “But professional. Easy to work with.”

  “Don’t let that stop you from inviting him.” Michelle clapped a hand on Jasmine’s shoulder and shot her a raised-eyebrow look that said, You better figure out a way to bring this guy to the party. Jasmine waved her away.

  Someone opened the basement door and tromped down the stairs. Their cousin Sammy came into view and Jasmine quickly shoved her Leading Lady Plan into her jeans pocket. She wasn’t in the mood for his teasing.

  “What do you want, Sammy?” Michelle called out.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the Bochinche Brujas,” he said, striding over to them.

  Jasmine rolled her eyes. Sammy had been using that tired old nickname for at least fifteen years, and it was never funny. Especially since they weren’t even the biggest gossips in the family.

  Sammy grinned. “You made me lose a bet, you know.”

  Jasmine didn’t like where this was going. “How’s that?”

  “I figured you and McIntyre would last at least three months, but you had to join the Sisterhood of the Single Ladies over here, huh?” He gestured at the three of them on the sofa.

  While Michelle and Ava shouted at Sammy to get out, Jasmine groaned and covered her face with her hands. Had she really just been thinking of moving here permanently? Forget it. She was booking her return flight to Los Angeles the second the show wrapped.

  Chapter 2

  The elevator doors pinged, then opened with a whoosh, and Ashton Suarez stepped into ScreenFlix’s Midtown Manhattan office for the first time.

  The ScreenFlix office decor was trendy and spacious—glass walls, leather armchairs, lots of plants. The orange and dark gray ScreenFlix logo was everywhere, along with posters from some of the streaming network’s hottest original shows, like The Clandestine Cases of Detective Yang, Showbiz, Party All Night, and The Dreamers. Wide windows overlooked Bryant Park’s expansive lawn.

  It had been years since Ashton had worked for a new production company. The studio lot in Miami where he filmed telenovelas was so familiar to him, he barely even noticed his surroundings there anymore. And while he wouldn’t be filming here—ScreenFlix Studios was located in Queens—he paused to take it all in.

  And to give himself a pep talk.

  Get your act together, pendejo. You wanted this.

  The first time meeting a new cast always brought on a case of nerves, and it didn’t help that this particular production had the chance to make or break his career. ScreenFlix was a whole new ball game.

  The production assistant waiting nearby gave him a friendly smile. “Hello, Mr. Suarez. I’m Skye. I’m here to take you to the conference room.”

  Skye had close-cropped brown hair and porcelain skin, wore a “they/them” button on the lapel of their peach linen blazer, and carried a tablet tucked under one arm.

  “Thanks.” Ashton stuck his hands in his pockets before he could pick at his nails. He needed a prop, something to hold. “Do you know where I could get a cup of coffee?”

  “I’ll take you to the green room first,” Skye said, gesturing for Ashton to follow. “You can chill there before the table read.”

  As Ashton followed them, he mentally ran through the show notes he’d been sent by the producer the night before. Even though he’d read them countless times already, it made him feel prepared and more in control. Plus, it gave him something to think about other than the spiraling state of his acting career.

  Carmen in Charge would follow the love life and professional pursuits of Carmen Serrano
, a public relations manager working for a firm that specialized in booking events for Spanish-speaking stars during their trips to New York City. Ashton had been cast to play Victor Vega, a famous singer. Originally, Victor had been one of Carmen’s clients. But the writers had made a big change—Victor was now going to be Carmen’s ex-husband.

  An ex-husband was a completely different dynamic than a new love interest. There would be an immediate level of familiarity between the characters, a sense of emotional baggage and underlying sexual tension. The whole show hinged on the developing romance between Carmen and Victor. Not only had he not done a chemistry read for the role, Ashton had never even met his costar, Jasmine Lin. Yeah, he’d played the romantic lead dozens of times, but he already knew most of the Miami-area actors pretty well and felt comfortable around them. Jasmine was an unknown entity.

  The stakes had never been this high. In the world of telenovelas, he was well-known, ever since his star turn on La maldición del león dorado. And up until a few months ago, he’d felt steady in his position there. Then El fuego de amor had given him a villain narrative, and while it had been a refreshing change of pace from his typical macho hero roles, the writers had then written him into a love triangle and killed him off. Well, killed his character off. But the shock and betrayal had felt the same. On the show, he’d lost his life and lost the heroine to the other male lead—Fernando Vargas, a Chilean actor ten years Ashton’s junior.

  Ever since Ashton had played el león dorado five years earlier, he’d always made it to the finale episode. Despite being shot, stabbed, and thrown from cliffs, his characters had always survived, and in some cases, gone on to happy endings. Now, that streak was broken, and he was terrified about what it meant for his career.

  His agent had spoken with the writers and producers, bringing up various options for keeping him involved with the show. Evil twin, back from the dead—any number of tried-and-true tropes could be used. None of it had made a difference. They’d felt his character’s death was the best story arc, and anyway, he was only missing out on a few episodes before the show ended. What was the big deal?

  The big deal was that Ashton was almost forty, and after fifteen years, he was spinning his wheels in the telenovela landscape because he believed it would eventually catapult him beyond. He was waiting for the chance to prove himself and instead, he’d been removed from the show early.

  He still had no idea if he’d done something to piss off an exec or if the viewers were just tired of him. There’d been a minor outcry on social media when the episode aired, but by then it had been too late. In the meantime, he’d only managed to book a couple of pilot episodes that didn’t seem likely to get picked up.

  So when the call came in for Carmen in Charge, Ashton had leaped at the chance. He was a last-minute replacement, scooped up by the casting gods thanks to a taped audition his agent had sent on a whim. Even though it was a telenovela remake, ScreenFlix would get him in front of a broader audience, and hopefully on the path to becoming the next Javier Bardem.

  In the back of his mind, though, he worried this would be his last shot. If this didn’t work out, where would it leave him?

  Carajo. So much for not thinking about it. On the outside, he was cool and collected as he followed Skye through the office space, passing glassed-in offices and open-plan desk areas where people worked at their computers. No one even looked at him—they were probably used to actors walking through here all the time—but he still felt exposed.

  On the inside? He was struggling not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.

  Skye stopped in front of an open doorway and gestured with a flourish. “Your coffee awaits,” they said, and Ashton pulled himself together long enough to smile and thank them.

  The green room had a small kitchenette attached to it, with three different kinds of coffee makers. Even though it was just after eight in the morning, his first cup had been over three hours ago, and he needed the pick-me-up. And since he was feeling stressed, he opted to indulge his sweet tooth with one of the French vanilla coffee pods in the basket.

  Once it was brewing, Ashton checked his watch. He’d meet Jasmine for the first time in twenty minutes, at the table read. It was stupid to feel so nervous. She worked in soap operas, which had a grueling production schedule similar to that of telenovelas, where they could sometimes film an episode a day. That meant she likely had a good work ethic and would be totally professional—traits he could admire in a scene partner. He’d do his best to be charming and make sure they got off on the right foot. It would be fine.

  Except for one thing.

  After getting the role, Ashton had googled Jasmine, expecting to find the usual—a Wikipedia page with her headshot and birthday, an IMDb listing with all her acting roles, her social media accounts, maybe some YouTube clips. Instead, he’d been surprised to see the first results were recent news stories about her breakup with some musician he’d never heard of who only went by one name.

  McIntyre, a lanky guy with greasy hair, tattoos, and a guitar, was known for his disaffected attitude and crooning vocals. Ashton’s first thought when he’d seen pictures of the guy was “cut your damn hair,” and then he worried that meant he was getting old. He also wondered what Jasmine had ever seen in the guy, then chastised himself. He had no business wondering or judging.

  The tabloids were having a field day with the story. And as much as Ashton sympathized with Jasmine, he didn’t want to get dragged into the media circus surrounding her. He already struggled to keep his personal life out of the Latinx entertainment news, and he’d have to be extra careful not to do or say anything that would give English-language tabloids reason to pay more attention to him. Being costars was often enough to start rumors, and Jasmine was stunningly beautiful, which already made them prime bait for a behind-the-scenes romance rumor. Not her fault, but people often looked for stories that weren’t there. Truth was, Ashton had no time for romance, behind the scenes or otherwise. But the press didn’t care about what was true—only what sold magazines or got clicks. Aside from work, he would have to keep his distance from Jasmine.

  With his cup filled with sweet, caffeinated nectar, Ashton took his time adding more sugar and cream. With as much energy as he put in at the gym and monitoring his diet, fixing his coffee just the way he liked it was one of his only remaining vices. Once he was done, he stepped back from the table, intending to find his new costar to introduce himself.

  Instead, his heel landed on something that wasn’t linoleum, and someone behind him let out a high-pitched yelp.

  Ashton spun in surprise, colliding with a body. There was a splash, followed by a clattering sound. The smell of coffee intensified. And he stared in horror at the sight of a woman wearing a white blouse and soft pink slacks, now splattered and dripping with foamy brown stains. Ice cubes scattered on the tiles around her stiletto-clad feet.

  It would have been bad enough to spill coffee on anyone during his first day on the job, but this was not just any woman. It was Jasmine Lin, his new costar. She was gorgeous—her golden skin glowed against the white of her wet shirt, now clinging to her torso and breasts—but at the moment, she looked like she wanted to murder him. Her dark brows set in a fierce scowl, and her full lips parted over clenched teeth. The nerves he’d battled all morning took over and came out of his mouth.

  “Um, hola.” Trying for a joke, he gestured at the half-empty cup in her hand. “Supongo que no te ibas a beber eso.”

  When she just stared at him, mouth hanging open, his stomach sank. So much for getting off on the right foot.

  Chapter 3

  The combination of ice-cold coffee, unexpected Spanish, and the full force of Ashton’s famously handsome face stole Jasmine’s voice. Her silk shirt clung to her chilled skin, thanks to the faulty lid that had leaped off her cold brew the second Ashton had backed into her.

  Ashton. She drank him in as if he were a steaming cappuccino on a cold day, her body warming from the
inside despite the inadvertent ice bath. Dark curly hair, the shadow of a beard, tan skin, and sexy dark brown eyes. He seemed even taller in person, and more magnetic, like a behemoth of a planet tugging her into his orbit.

  She felt drawn to him in a way that made no sense, but that was the magic of TV—it made you feel close to people you’d never met, through familiarity and carefully crafted characters designed to make you root for them, fall in love with them, or love to hate them.

  And here he was, in the flesh, and somehow even hotter in person. The Golden Lion. She’d watched some episodes at Michelle’s urging, and Ashton’s command of the viewer’s attention was masterful.

  In an effort to ignore the way her heart pounded at his nearness, she focused on what he’d said.

  Since she didn’t want to admit just yet that she wasn’t fluent in Spanish, Jasmine picked over the words, replaying them in her mind and translating each one.

  Hola. Those first deep, fluid syllables of his greeting had sent a thrill through her.

  Supongo que no te ibas a beber eso.

  I guess you weren’t going to drink that.

  Wait, was he being sarcastic? Or serious? Shit, she couldn’t tell.

  Jasmine narrowed her eyes at him just in case. “Was that meant to be a joke?”

  His eyebrows twitched, like maybe he was surprised she’d answered in English. She was used to that.

  “Uh . . . yes. A joke. But not a funny joke, I see.” In English, his deep voice was accented and smooth. He grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the table and thrust them at her. “I’m Ashton Suarez.”

  “I know who you are. My grandmother absolutely adores you.” God, had she really just said that? Jasmine patted her torso with the napkins, which did little to sop up the dark coffee soaking her shirt. Even worse, although it was hard to tell from her vantage point, she was pretty sure the white silk had become see-through. She tried to pull on the wet fabric so it didn’t cling to her like a second skin, but it just slapped back onto her boobs. Awesome.