by Alexis Daria
Her father spoke up. “Especially since they’re also looking at giving the spot to Dimas del Valle.”
“Dimas?” Carmen’s gaze shot back to Victor. “You hate that guy.”
Victor’s expression turned thunderous and he muttered a string of Spanish insults under his breath.
“Oye.” Carmen snapped her fingers and strode over to Victor, getting all up in his personal space, closer than she would with a typical client. Close enough to catch the heady scent of his cologne. She jabbed her finger in his chest to get his attention. His hard, firm chest. “They’re going to make a decision soon, and if you don’t clean up your image and make yourself visible, they’re going to pick Dimas for the tour. Is that what you want?”
Victor scowled, his eyes darkening. “You know it isn’t.”
Carmen gave a cocky little head shake. “Then you need to stay out of trouble. That means no parties, no drinking, and no messing around with your stupid friends. Where are you staying?”
When the corner of his mouth ticked up, Carmen narrowed her eyes. “Whenever you make that face, I know I’m not going to like whatever you say next.”
Victor’s grin turned mocking. “Well, if I have to stay out of trouble, there’s only one place that’s perfect for that.”
Carmen scoffed. “Where, a monastery?”
His smile was slow and devious. “No, even better.” He waited a beat for effect, then said, “Your parents’ house.”
Carmen sucked in a breath. “Ay, puñeta.”
“Cut!”
Chapter 6
Jasmine turned to the director, who wore a big grin.
“That was perfect,” he said from his chair, looking up from the playback screen. “We’ll get the shot of Victor walking in again, but then we’ll go to the next scene.”
Jasmine moved off to the side and gratefully accepted the bottle of water handed to her by a PA.
“Great work, Jas.” Peter Calabasas joined her, trailed by two makeup artists who immediately set about touching up the actors’ faces. “You’re a natural.”
“You make it easy, Dad,” Jasmine said with a grin. “Are you joining us for drinks Friday night?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said. “Thanks for organizing that.”
“A cast is a family.” She hadn’t asked Ashton yet, but she hoped he would join them.
“Eyes closed, Jasmine,” the makeup artist said, and Jasmine complied. When she opened them, her gaze landed on the set. As expected, Ashton had already disappeared.
A pang shot through her. Was it her fault?
It had been a week, and she had yet to have a real conversation with Ashton. Well, aside from their disastrous first encounter. Her white blouse from that day had been ruined, but her grandmother had worked some laundry magic with the pink slacks, and they were good as new.
This whole thing would be easier if she could run lines with him, like she did with Lily, Miriam, and Peter. But Ashton had made himself clear. He didn’t want anything to do with her—or the rest of the cast, if her observations were correct. Her cousins had been right—he was unapproachable and kept to himself. She should just leave him to it.
Still, it didn’t feel right not to invite Ashton out for drinks. She’d let him know, and if he said yes, then great, and if he said no . . .
She hoped he didn’t say no.
The reunion scene had gone well because Carmen was supposed to feel thrown off balance by Victor’s appearance. Not hard to manage, since Jasmine was still a bundle of nerves around Ashton. But as Carmen and Victor began to grow more comfortable around each other? Jasmine dreaded those scenes.
Especially the kiss in episode three.
Marquita had told Jasmine that the production would be bringing in an intimacy coordinator, someone who helped direct physically intimate scenes between actors to ensure everyone was comfortable, to choreograph Carmen and Victor’s first on-screen kiss.
Jasmine had filmed more than her fair share of kisses and sex scenes during her career, and it hadn’t really been an issue before. But then, she’d also never worried that her costar actively hated her. Usually she was able to develop a good rapport with someone before getting intimate on camera. Ashton, however, was making that impossible.
If she were being honest, she was curious what it would be like to kiss Ashton. His lips were just so . . . sensual. Smooth and full, with a defined dip in the top lip. He used them to great effect while he was acting, along with his dark, facile eyebrows and expressive eyes.
It was totally possible to develop a crush on someone’s acting ability, and Jasmine already had it bad. She’d taken to watching an episode of La maldición del león dorado with subtitles before bed each night to better understand Ashton’s performance technique, although it was a fun story too. She could see why Ava liked it. The key was to make sure she only admired his acting, and nothing else.
Well okay, she could appreciate his sexiness, too, but that was it. Purely objective.
Except the thing that always toppled her headlong from crush into infatuation wasn’t just good looks or competence—it was attention.
So maybe it was better that Ashton was ignoring her. Because if he suddenly gave her the time of day . . .
Remember McIntyre, she told herself.
Jasmine had gone to his concert on a whim, accompanying a friend in Los Angeles who had VIP seats and backstage passes. His music was fine—not for her, but she could get why other people liked it. The problem started when Jasmine went backstage to meet him. McIntyre was a dynamic performer, but he was also an incorrigible flirt. That was his superpower—when he turned on the full power of that green-eyed gaze, it made you feel like the only person in the room. Like somebody important. Somebody who truly mattered.
Classic middle child that she was, Jasmine had eaten that up with a spoon.
And look where it had gotten her. Splashed across magazine covers. Unable to check her social media accounts. Hounded by paparazzi on the way to ScreenFlix’s production lot.
She’d had enough. And if she’d learned anything from a string of shitty exes, it was that she was better off alone.
If only she could make herself believe that.
A PA approached her, double-checking a clipboard. “They want you to film some B-roll in the office before we move on,” he said.
Jasmine followed, taking three deep breaths to shake off her gloom. She had this. She was going to shoot this footage, and then she was going to ask Ashton to join the rest of the cast for drinks. Piece of cake. Absolutely nothing to be scared of.
Nothing at all.
IN THE SAFETY of his dressing room, Ashton could finally breathe.
You wanted this, cabrón, he reminded himself. This job was the next step in his career plan, the thing that would move him closer to his goals. He could imagine being interviewed on the red carpet, replying to the interviewer with, “And everything changed with Carmen in Charge.”
But only if the show went well. And it wouldn’t go well if he couldn’t get his head out of his own ass.
He started brewing coffee, the familiar scent and sound of the single-cup coffee maker soothing his frayed nerves. The room itself, done in ScreenFlix’s signature orange, charcoal, and white color scheme with blocky modern furniture, wasn’t so calming. But it was spacious and clean, and the sofa was comfortable enough to nap on, if not exactly long enough for someone his height.
As much as he’d wanted this career upgrade, he missed Miami. He missed the other local telenovela actors and regular crew members. He missed his bright, spacious apartment and the trailer he’d personalized over years of working with the same production company. No pictures of Yadiel, of course, which weighed on him, but his phone camera roll was filled with photos of the two of them with silly animal filters over their faces. He missed being able to see Yadiel more easily.
And if he were being honest with himself, he missed being a big fish in a small pond. He’d built up his career
over fifteen years in the telenovela scene and achieved a modicum of fame. Yet it hadn’t felt like enough. Despite his intense need for privacy, he wanted more.
But now that he was on the verge of having it, he felt like he was drowning. It didn’t make any sense.
Maybe it was just that he didn’t like being so far away from Yadi. Ashton worried about him constantly, and he was sure he was annoying his father with his frequent check-ins. His last text to Ignacio had been met with an all-caps “ESTAMOS BIEN,” and he could just imagine his father typing it with flared nostrils and thinly veiled irritation.
Maybe it was that he didn’t know anybody here. He knew how he came across—cold, aloof, reserved. It was a carefully crafted persona that made it easier to shut down intrusive reporters and impromptu interviews. If he kept people out, they didn’t look too deep, and therefore didn’t learn about his life. It was something he’d adopted with his coworkers, too, but he’d gradually felt more comfortable around his telenovela costars after being part of the industry for many years. Here, working on Carmen, he felt like the new kid all over again, and his walls were up.
And then there was Jasmine.
As a scene partner, he couldn’t have asked for anyone better. She was open, giving, and vulnerable. And when she was out of character, her humor and lightheartedness drew his attention, despite his best efforts to remain ambivalent.
Everyone loved her. And while Ashton could play that kind of open, carefree character, he could never really be like that.
When his coffee finished brewing, he added a ton of milk and sugar from the mini-fridge and stirred. The smell comforted him, reminded him of the way his mother had brewed her morning cafecito. Maybe he should order an espresso machine for his dressing room. He’d just taken his first sip when someone knocked on the door.
“It’s Jasmine,” came a voice from the other side.
Heart pounding, Ashton set down the mug, just in case. He was still mortified about their first encounter. For a split second, he thought of pretending not to be in, but that was stupid. He got up and opened the door.
Jasmine greeted him with a brilliant smile that made his pulse beat even harder. She was so fucking pretty, and she’d been so forgiving after the coffee thing, even when she would have been totally justified in chewing him out.
“Hey, Ashton,” she said. “I just wanted to let you know a bunch of us are going out for drinks after we finish on Friday. We have a reservation at a tapas bar that Miriam recommended. Do you want to come with us?”
“Ah . . .” Ashton’s mind ricocheted between yes and no. He should say yes. What was the harm? But some unidentified anxiety held him back. It was that damned pond metaphor. This was a bigger pond, and he was scared to dip his toe in.
“Gracias, pero no,” he finally said. “Para la próxima.”
“Okay.” Jasmine’s smile tightened, and her voice was brittle. “Maybe next time.”
Closing the door, he shook his head at himself. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he bring himself to trust these people enough to go out for one night?
Because you don’t trust anybody, a little voice whispered in the back of his mind.
It was true. He didn’t. His father and grandparents, yes, but that was it. Over the years, he’d grown more and more withdrawn.
He hadn’t always been this way, damn it. In his twenties, he’d relished his budding fame, partying and clubbing with his actor friends and enjoying everything the Miami nightlife had to offer.
But then he’d become a father, and everything changed.
When Yadiel had been born, his mother—another telenovela star Ashton had a short-lived fling with—had handed the baby over, along with a list of terms. As a devout Catholic, she’d done her duty by giving birth, but she had no interest in ever being a mother. It would ruin her career. Ashton could have full custody, provided he kept her identity secret and paid for the cosmetic surgery treatments to get her body back to what it had been pre-pregnancy. Not only that, she never wanted to work on a show with Ashton ever again.
For Ashton, who’d grown up as an only child, the prospect of being a dad had been scary, but exciting. The first time he’d held Yadiel in the hospital in Orlando, his heart had broken and reformed into something stronger than he’d ever imagined, forged in the purest love someone could feel. His son was everything to him, and Yadiel’s happiness and well-being was worth any price. Yadiel’s birth had brought joy back to Ignacio, too, who’d struggled to find his balance after losing his wife.
But that didn’t mean there weren’t sacrifices, or stress. Every time hurricane season rolled around, Ashton bit his nails and sweated while he watched the weather reports, ready to hop on a plane to evacuate his family at a moment’s notice.
And the bigger his career grew, the more he worried about how his visibility would affect his son. He still had nightmares about being awakened by a sound in the middle of the night. Of getting up, as he often did since becoming a father, to check on his little boy as he slept.
Of finding a shadowy figure outside Yadiel’s broken window.
Everything changed after the night an overzealous fan-turned-stalker, angry that Ashton hadn’t been replying to his letters, tried to break into Yadiel’s nursery. It happened after a local Miami newspaper ran a story on neighborhoods where telenovela stars lived. Ashton hadn’t even been that famous then, living in a modest residential neighborhood on a typical telenovela actor’s salary, which wasn’t as high as people thought. But that had been enough for the man to find his home.
Even though Ashton moved his son to Puerto Rico after the Incident, as he called it, it had taken a long time to feel safe again. Ashton still pursued his career, but he did it with his walls up. The Latin American media could be merciless, so he did everything in his power to keep his son safe and hidden. Even if it meant spending time away from him.
Even if it meant closing himself off from everything and everyone else. Including his new costars.
Just thinking about the Incident made him antsy, and being far away from home didn’t help.
He drank a big gulp of coffee, then picked up his phone and shot another check-in text to Ignacio.
Chapter 7
CARMEN IN CHARGE
EPISODE 2
Scene: Carmen and Victor attend a red-carpet event.
EXT: Red carpet—NIGHT
At the edge of the red carpet, Carmen adjusted the bodice of her dress, making a show of looking uncomfortable in the strapless blue-sequined getup. “I still don’t understand why I have to be in the photos with you.”
Victor grinned down at her, and butterflies fluttered in her belly, spurred to action by the full, stunning force of his attention. “Because you’re my date.”
“No, I’m not.” Go back to sleep, butterflies. This isn’t real. “I’m your publicist. Babysitter even. Not your date.”
Victor lowered his head and his voice. The dulcet tones shivered over her skin. “Once upon a time, you loved being on my arm on the red carpet.”
“Yeah, well, once upon a time I was your wife,” Carmen retorted, the words coming out harsh as she tried to ignore the delicious things his voice was doing to her. “And now I’m not.”
Victor straightened, his expression hardening. Carmen tried to ignore the prick of her conscience, letting her gaze drift over to the carpet, where other beautifully dressed people posed for pictures while flashbulbs popped. The lighting and set designers had outdone themselves with this one.
“We’re next,” Victor said, his voice cold.
Yep. She’d hurt his feelings. But he’d hurt her too. There were lots of reasons why they’d gotten divorced, and one of them was that they just couldn’t stop hurting each other.
Or at least, that was the back story she’d come up with on her own while reading the script.
Carmen took a deep breath, fixed a smile on her face, and stepped out onto the carpet, clinging to Victor’s arm.
&n
bsp; Lights flashed. Extras milled around silently. The hum of the crowd would be added in later. Carmen smiled, awash in nerves and the need to appear professional. She wasn’t here as his date, but his publicist. Her only goal was to help repair Victor’s image so she could save the family business. She was not here to have fun, or to enjoy being close to him.
Even though she did enjoy it.
As they moved to their mark, Victor spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”
“It’s terrible,” Carmen said through a tight smile. But she didn’t mean the lights or the people. She meant the closeness, the scent of his cologne wrapping around her like a comforting cloud, his hard body warm at her side.
It was all so terribly . . . wonderful. She wanted to shift closer, to lean into him, to wrap herself in his warmth and the feel of his skin against hers.
Focus, Jasmine.
“Cut!”
Oh, thank god.
Chapter 8
Despite his bone-deep exhaustion, Ashton caught a late flight to San Juan after the second episode wrapped. The final scenes had called not just for physicality, thanks to Victor’s drunken outburst and shoving match with a rival singer, but emotion, as the complications of Victor and Carmen’s relationship reached a new low.
The fight had required multiple takes to film, to the point where Ashton regretted insisting that sure, he could absolutely do his own stunts. Not that the actual stunt guy he acted opposite had hurt him, but stage combat could be grueling work. Another concern had been Jasmine’s presence in the scene, since Carmen’s character was called upon to break up the fight. The last thing he’d wanted to do was accidentally hurt her, so Ashton had been aware of her every second, from the moments she was glued to his side on the red carpet, to the way she banded her arms around his torso to pull him out of the fight, to the way she tenderly cupped his cheek to check for bruises.
Acting was reacting, and they’d taken their cues from each other, even as Ashton had dug deeper and deeper into himself to pull out Victor’s pain. Jasmine matched him beat for emotional beat as Victor had raged himself into exhaustion. The quiet moments between them after the fight were probably some of the best acting he’d ever done.