by Alexis Daria
“That’s all I have. Thanks for being so open to this process.” Vera’s eyes landed on Ashton when she said “open” and he got the feeling she knew he was holding back. “I’ll see you tomorrow for rehearsal.”
THAT NIGHT, JASMINE met Michelle for dinner at a wine bar in Greenwich Village. After two glasses of wine—and forty-five minutes spent on party-planning details—Jasmine loosened up enough to approach the sexy elephant in the room.
“I think I like Ashton,” she mused.
“I thought you said he doesn’t talk to you.” Michelle’s voice was direct, but not unkind. She topped off their glasses from the bottle of Merlot on the table.
Jasmine scowled. “He kinda doesn’t?”
“So how do you know you like him?”
Jasmine blew out a breath and slumped back in her seat. “Fine. I’m attracted to him. Plus, he’s a good actor. And when I get little glimpses of him . . . I like what I see.”
“Where are you on the scale?”
Years ago, Michelle had created the four-point Jasmine Scale to track Jasmine’s progression—or descent, as Michelle called it—into love.
The first point on the scale was Attraction. It was the curiosity phase, where Jasmine started to wonder about the guy and noticed all the cute and charming things about him, usually while ignoring glaring flaws and red flags.
Next came the Crush. In the Crush phase, Jasmine amped up the flirting, getting physically closer and making it obvious that she was interested.
The third phase, Infatuation, was where she started to lose her sense of self and all good judgment. She made herself too available and did too many favors for the guy in question.
After that, there was only one more step left: Falling in Love, where she threw herself headfirst into the emotional abyss.
“I think I’m still on the first point,” Jasmine said. Michelle was right. Jasmine hadn’t actually spent enough time around Ashton to reach Crush levels yet.
“Then there’s still hope for you.” Michelle grinned, then popped a french fry in her mouth.
Jasmine stole some of Michelle’s fries. “Hooray for me.”
Michelle reached across the table and patted her arm. “Look, Ashton is super hot. If you were going to rebound with someone, you could do a lot worse than him.”
“I’m trying not to rebound at all.”
“Remember your Leading Lady Plan.”
How could she forget? And while she was thinking about it, Jasmine mentally added a fourth point: Leading Ladies do not rebound with their costars.
Speaking of . . .
“We film the kissing scene tomorrow,” she blurted out.
Michelle’s eyes went wide, and then she laughed her head off while Jasmine stewed.
“You are toast,” Michelle said, then raised her glass. “Here lies Jasmine. We loved her well. Cause of death: crushing on her costar.”
Jasmine grabbed her own wine and gulped down half of it. “What is so wrong with having a crush?”
“Oh, now it’s a crush? Are you at the second point on the scale?”
“No.” Not yet.
“There’s nothing wrong with a crush,” Michelle said, her tone gentle. “But you don’t do crushes.”
Jasmine wished she did crushes. How much easier would her life be if she could find someone appealing, never act on it, and then forget all about them? But she just wasn’t wired that way, and she didn’t want to be. Was it so much to ask for a loving, committed relationship with someone who unconditionally loved and accepted her for who she was?
Apparently so, because she’d kissed a lot of frogs over the years, and all of them had broken her heart.
“I’m not going to rebound with Ashton,” she said firmly, more to herself than to Michelle.
Her cousin raised a skeptical eyebrow, then lifted her glass again. “Cheers to that,” she said, although she didn’t sound convinced.
“Don’t tell Ava.”
“Oh, I’m definitely telling Ava.”
Jasmine let out a sigh. “Fine. Tell Ava. Saves me the trouble of bringing her up to speed.”
Michelle chuckled while Jasmine drained her glass.
Chapter 10
Vera was waiting when Ashton arrived on set for private rehearsal early the next day. These scenes would be shot in a working kitchen that was normally used for talk shows but was now outfitted to look like the basement-level kitchen of the Serranos’ East Harlem brownstone. The crew had dressed it in dark wood with warm yellow lighting and copper pots and pans hanging from a low ceiling. Three walls had been built around the kitchen appliances—a sink on one side, a stove on the other, fake stairs in the back, and a wood-topped island in the center.
Since they were just rehearsing, Ashton was still in the jeans and T-shirt he’d dressed in after his five a.m. gym session. Jasmine arrived just behind him, looking fresh and sexy in a floral romper. She wasn’t tall, but she was all legs, and it took everything he had not to stare like a creep when she strutted around in shorts.
“Morning,” she said, sending him a sleepy little smile. Damn, she was adorable.
“Buenos días,” he replied, then reminded himself to stick to English. “Tired?”
She nodded. “No coffee yet. I didn’t want to—you know, drink coffee and then kiss. It’s kinda gross.”
He couldn’t help but smile, since he’d considered the same thing this morning—brushing, flossing, and rinsing his mouth three times after drinking his own coffee.
Ilba and Marquita strolled in then. It was only the five of them on set to practice. Vera’s orders.
They sat on folding chairs while Vera reviewed the points she’d made the previous day regarding communication and consent.
“Did you two come up with some sort of closure ritual?” Vera asked, turning her bright, intense gaze on Ashton and Jasmine.
Carajo, he hadn’t even thought about it, but Jasmine raised her hand tentatively, like they were in school.
“I had an idea,” she said, her voice unsure as she met Ashton’s eyes. “What if we . . . high-fived? After Ilba yells ‘cut.’ To, you know, snap us out of character.”
Ashton’s mind flashed back through eight years of high-fiving Yadiel every time the kid nailed his goals—walking, tying his shoes, adding numbers, flipping his skateboard and landing on it. He still couldn’t remember what that move was called, but Yadiel had been so proud of himself when he’d stuck the landing that first time. It had warranted a double high five, using both hands. A “high ten,” Yadiel called it.
Everyone was waiting for him to reply, so Ashton nodded. “Okay. Yes, a high five.”
With Jasmine it would be an innocuous move, the sound and motion of their slapping palms serving to break them out of the awkward haze of kissing on camera.
Because it was awkward, no matter how many times he did it.
The last woman he’d kissed on camera had been a seasoned telenovela actress on El fuego de amor. In fact, they’d both starred on another show together, maybe six years earlier, where they’d had to kiss. They’d cracked jokes leading up to the moment, teasing each other about how much older they were now. But Ashton didn’t have that rapport with Jasmine. All he had was a feeling like electricity singing through his veins when she was near.
It was his own fault. He should have worked harder to get to know her before this moment. Media attention and social anxiety be damned, this was his chance. And he was on the verge of blowing it because he’d spent too much time hiding in his dressing room.
“So we have a passionate, heat-of-the-moment kiss between two ex-lovers,” Vera went on, oblivious to Ashton’s inner turmoil. “There’d be some reluctance there, too, right? But also surrender. They’re finally giving in to what they both feel.”
Ashton glanced at Jasmine. Giving in? That wouldn’t be too hard to pretend. But feeling real attraction for the other actor often made the whole thing even more awkward. He had to shut those feelings away and focus.
This was work.
Ilba spoke up. “I’m thinking more clutching, less groping.”
Vera nodded. “Yes, these are two people who once loved each other enough to get married. They’ve spent years apart and they’re desperate to revisit what they once had. But also, it’s a stolen moment in the family kitchen, and Carmen’s mother could come back at any time. They’re holding each other, not tearing off clothing.” She turned to Jasmine and Ashton. “How does that sound to you two?”
Jasmine agreed. “It’s a release of tension too. They’ve been snapping at each other since he returned, but the anger and teasing mask the real feelings underneath—both the hurt and the lingering love.”
The others nodded approvingly, then Ilba turned to Marquita. “How hot are we making this? Like, tongue? Or—”
Vera took one look at Jasmine, and whatever she saw on her face had her interrupting quickly. “No tongue. It won’t be necessary.”
Now Ashton wanted to know what Jasmine was thinking. He preferred not to use tongue on-screen. It was weird, and kind of jarring. There was already too much to think about without bringing tongues and saliva into it. What had Jasmine’s experiences been? She must have had plenty of on-screen kisses. It was too late to ask her, however. They were getting ready to begin.
While Marquita and Ilba discussed something in the script, Vera took Ashton aside.
“Is there anything you’re uncomfortable with?” she asked in a low voice. “Doing or receiving. Or anywhere you’d prefer not to be touched?”
It was the first time anyone had asked him that. He’d thought to ask some of his female costars in the past, but it wasn’t something the production team usually took into account, especially for a male actor. Everyone had always assumed he was perfectly comfortable touching women he didn’t know, or being touched by them.
When he didn’t answer right away, Vera gave him a reassuring smile. “I’ve done my research. I know you’re a pro. But still, if there’s anything that makes you uncomfortable, or you don’t want to do, please tell me. This is a safe space for you too.”
“Um, thank you,” he said, not sure what else to say. In truth, he didn’t mind being touched within the context of a scene. He certainly didn’t mind the thought of Jasmine touching him, although having an audience changed the dynamic significantly. But he liked that Vera had thought to ask. “I just want to make sure she—Jasmine—is comfortable.”
“I want that too.” Vera left him to go speak to Jasmine. While they talked, Jasmine’s gaze lifted and caught Ashton’s across the set. She said something to Vera and gave a little shake of her head. He would have given anything to hear what she was saying, but then again, maybe he was better off not knowing.
And then . . . there was nothing more to do but rehearse the kiss.
Ilba handled the first part. “You’ll both be standing here,” she said, pointing. “Working together at the kitchen island, cooking a meal.”
“Will we have food on our hands?” Jasmine asked, sounding dubious as she joined Ashton at the counter.
Marquita and Ilba exchanged a look, and the showrunner shook her head.
“No, it’s not a messy make-out session,” Marquita said. “You’re admiring the plated dishes.”
“What does the script say?” Ilba asked, flipping pages.
“‘They kiss,’” Jasmine and Ashton replied in unison. He caught her eye, then looked away. It was something he’d noticed while memorizing his lines. No stage direction except They kiss. There was a world of possibility in those two little words.
Vera reviewed her own copy. “Okay, Carmen’s mother gets a phone call, says, ‘It’s Tía Jimena. Un momentito,’ then leaves the room. Carmen rolls her eyes and says—”
Jasmine spoke her line right on cue. “She’ll be gone an hour.”
“This is where Victor takes the opportunity to move a little closer,” Ilba said.
Ashton sidled closer to Jasmine, but Vera shook her head.
“Ashton, let’s have you be a little smoother. What if you do it like this?” Vera stood next to Ashton, mimicking his pose—right hip leaning on the counter, head turned toward Jasmine, who was to his left.
“Instead of just leaning down, how about you . . .” Vera slid her hip along the edge of the counter toward Ashton. In one smooth move, she shifted closer, her body now facing his, and she’d never dropped eye contact.
Ashton nodded, impressed. “I can do that.”
He tried it a few times until the move was as easy as breathing.
“What should I do?” Jasmine asked.
“Can you lean your elbows on the counter?” Ilba suggested. When Jasmine had to lean down too far, Marquita shook her head.
“You’re too tall,” the showrunner said. “Take off your shoes. We’ll get you chancletas to wear during the shoot.”
Jasmine kicked off her platform sandals and repeated the casual pose. The other women nodded.
“This is the lead in to the moment that becomes a kiss,” Vera explained. “Your characters are both very comfortable right now. Their defenses are down, and they’re remembering what they like about each other. Ashton, start with the slide, getting as close to Jasmine as you can without knocking her over. You’re opening up your body to her, but subtly, not overwhelmingly.”
“What do I do with my arms?” he asked.
They explored a few options—hands on the counter, in his pockets, on his hips—and settled on having him cross his arms as he turned toward Jasmine. But he was instructed to make it look “relaxed, not defensive.”
Then they set to work on Jasmine—her reaction, her pose, her eye movement and facial expressions. It was almost like a dance, and Ashton understood why this was called choreography. They broke down the scene into steps of emotion, and attached those feelings to a movement, a look, a stance. Then they ran through them, adjusting and perfecting each piece until it created the whole of the interaction.
It had been a long time since he’d workshopped a scene with such deliberate attention to detail, and he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed this aspect of acting. Most of the shows he’d been on adopted a quick and dirty approach to getting the footage, relying on heightened emotion and over-the-top theatrics.
This was . . . nice, he decided. More calming, despite the awkwardness.
“Let’s take it through with the lines,” Vera told him, and he took his spot at the counter.
When Ilba gave the signal, Ashton slid closer to Jasmine. With his arms crossed over his chest, he tapped into Victor’s easy charm—something he wished he could employ more in his real life—and grinned. “Do you think I have a chance at winning?”
Jasmine looked up at him from under long lashes. She pursed her lips before she answered, like she was thinking about what he’d said.
“I think so. If you remember every step of the recipe, execute it all perfectly, and finish on time.”
He raised his eyebrows. “No pressure.”
She softened then. Nothing obvious, but still, a noticeable easing of her stance, her tone, her expression. Her words were serious, not sarcastic, as she repeated, “No pressure.”
This was it. Time for him—Victor—to make his move. Uncrossing his arms in a slow movement, Ashton raised his hand.
Suddenly, Vera was there, close to them.
“Stay in the moment,” she said in a hushed voice. She took Ashton’s hand and gently brought it to Jasmine’s cheek.
Ashton positioned his hand on the side of Jasmine’s face the way Vera directed it. His fingers slid over Jasmine’s jaw to curl around the side of her neck, under her ear. Her skin was so warm. He had a flash of pressing his mouth there. How would she feel against his lips?
“Say your line.” Vera’s words were faint, barely interrupting the tension spinning out between the three of them.
Ashton dropped his voice. “You have something here.” With Vera’s hand over his, Ashton’s thumb came to rest on the curve of Jasmine’s cheekbone.
Vera gave the digit a little nudge, and Ashton stroked Jasmine’s cheek in a soft, gentle glide. Then Vera shifted, resting her hands on Jasmine’s upper arms. Slowly, Jasmine rose up from her elbows. Her dark eyes stayed locked on Ashton’s, even as Vera moved her like a doll, or a puppet. But Vera wasn’t controlling them—no, she was guiding. They’d given her permission, given each other permission. They’d consented to this, and there was power in that. Vera was part of this.
And damn if it wasn’t incredibly intimate.
Jasmine’s lashes dropped a fraction, and Ashton marveled at how easily she turned on the bedroom eyes. Then the corner of her full lips pinched into the barest trace of a smile as Carmen called Victor’s bluff. “No, I don’t.”
Ashton was struck by the mixture of humor, lust, and . . . trust in this moment, between the characters. It formed a heady swirl of emotions that the viewers would eat up. But he had to nail this next part.
“You’re right,” he said, still stroking her cheek languidly, speaking with naked honesty. “You don’t. I just . . . wanted to . . .”
He trailed off, leaning in. Jasmine tilted her chin up toward him.
“Hold it,” Vera said, her face inches from theirs.
They both froze. Ashton’s gaze shot to Vera, questioning, but the intimacy coordinator was smiling.
“That was great,” she said. “Did it feel okay to you two?”
Easing back, Ashton nodded, and Jasmine gave a hum of agreement.
He’d been nervous about this process, but now that they were in it, he was a little startled at how much more than okay it felt to him. From an acting standpoint, he’d been completely in tune with Jasmine, more deeply connected than any of their other times on set together. Already, he could see that their performance was improving.
Once Ilba and Marquita had signed off on the choreography, Vera clapped her hands together. “Great. Let’s choreograph the kiss!”
KISSING A STRANGER was weird.
Kissing a stranger while another person hovered around them, adjusting their body parts and giving direction, was also weird. But Vera was so quirky and genuine, Jasmine couldn’t help but love her a little. She also truly seemed to understand the characters, which was more than Jasmine could say for many directors she’d worked with.