by Alexis Daria
And Jasmine had been comfortable, at least for the first ten takes or so. As comfortable as one could be smashing faces with another human being in front of a room full of people. Ashton certainly wasn’t the worst guy she’d ever had to kiss for a role. He smelled wonderful, and his lips were soft. And she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t enjoyed being held in his arms. But still, there’d been something . . . missing . . . from the scene. Her mind kept drifting to Vera’s instructions about the importance of communication.
Maybe it was just that simple. She and Ashton were missing the communication piece. True enough, they barely spoke to each other. She’d started to feel like he was warming up to her—she didn’t think she’d imagined his reaction to her over the mofongo broth—but after that, he’d only looked at her when the script called for it.
Not to mention, their high fives were shameful. If they couldn’t even get that right, how could they convince an audience that they were madly in lust?
And they had to. The show hinged on the rekindling of Carmen and Victor’s romance. If they couldn’t nail that, then what was the point? The show would flop. She’d be back to the dwindling world of soap operas, and it would be another mark against mainstream Latinx-led projects.
Jasmine: I think we’re just not communicating well.
Michelle: “Communicating.” Is that what the kids call it these days?
Jasmine: You know what I mean. We never talk, so of course our characters are going to be weird around each other when it’s time for THOSE scenes.
Ava: Is there one of THOSE scenes? Asking for a friend. Who is me.
Jasmine: I’m not 100% sure. We don’t get the whole season of scripts in advance.
Michelle: What, are they scared they’ll leak?
Jasmine: No, the writers are still working on later episodes as we film.
Ava: I don’t think talking to him is a bad idea. You can get on the same page and agree to work together to make the show a success.
Michelle: LOL “on the same page.” Nice one, Ava.
Ava added a winking emoji sticking out a tongue.
It seemed simple—just talk to him! But Ashton’s behavior stirred up all her old fears of being rejected, and reaching out seemed like the most difficult task in the world. But if they weren’t communicating well, sitting in separate dressing rooms between takes wasn’t going to change that. He clearly wasn’t going to bridge the gap between them, so that meant it was up to her.
Jasmine: All right, I’m gonna do it.
Michelle: Do what?
Jasmine: I’m going to go talk to him.
Ava sent a row of confetti emojis.
Jasmine: Thanks, primas. What would I do without you two?
Michelle replied with a winking kiss emoji.
Taking a deep breath, Jasmine freshened her lipstick, grabbed her script, and left the room.
WITH THE KITCHEN kiss complete, Ashton raced back to his dressing room to check his phone.
After finding a series of text updates—Abuelito Gus was given antibiotics and Yadiel’s wrist was sprained but not broken—Ashton finally relaxed. Everyone was fine.
Except now he had time to think about what a disaster his performance today had been.
Seventeen takes? For a kiss that they’d rehearsed in detail? Ay Dios. He was losing his edge as a romantic male lead.
At thirty-eight, he worried about the gray hairs he’d started sporting in his beard and how much harder it had become to maintain his muscle tone. His skin care and workout routines were already ridiculous; he wasn’t sure what else he could do in those areas, aside from finding a vampire to make him immortal. But if he did that, his grandmother would never speak to him again, so morning gym sessions and expensive lotions were all he had. But what if he was just a pretty face? He knew he had more to give as an actor, but now he was finally being given the chance to prove himself, and he was blowing it.
Jasmine had been amazing, immediately leaping into the emotions of the scene with each take and executing the kissing and heavy petting choreography perfectly. She had to have been getting tired of having his hands and mouth all over her, but she hadn’t let any signs of exhaustion show. Ashton had taken strength from that. But he couldn’t get out of his own head enough to let Victor take over 100 percent. And somehow, it had shown. Ilba, Ofelia, Marquita—none of them could place a finger on what was wrong with the scene, exactly. Just that something wasn’t right.
Ashton couldn’t argue with them. For one thing, he made a habit of not arguing with directors. But since he didn’t know what was wrong, he didn’t know how to fix it. So as much as it wasn’t a hardship to be close to Jasmine—or her hot curves and lush mouth—he hadn’t enjoyed it. It was work. And it sucked to feel like he wasn’t doing well at his job.
Bypassing his new espresso machine for a sweeter option, Ashton popped a hazelnut pod into his dressing room’s single cup coffee maker just as someone knocked on the door. It was so tentative, he wasn’t sure it was a real knock, but he went to check anyway. On the other side, he found Jasmine staring up at him. Her dark eyes were hesitant, just like her knock.
“Hola,” he said, then added, “Hello.”
“Hi,” she said, sounding shy. “Um, I was wondering if we could talk?”
God, she was gorgeous. Esta es una mala idea. But he stepped back to let her in, trying not to deeply inhale the sweet citrus scent trailing after her, a scent he’d been up close and personal with all day and which would be haunting his dreams all night. He poked his head into the hallway to make sure no one had seen her.
When he shut the door, her lips quirked into a small smile.
“What’s wrong, scared to be seen with me?” she joked. Then her eyes widened and all traces of humor disappeared from her face. “Oh my god. You are. You’re scared to be seen with me. Shit.” She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed a hand to her forehead. “I should’ve known. The McIntyre stuff. You’ve seen it. Of course you’ve seen it. How could you not?”
Ashton rushed in to try to soothe her, carefully placing his hands on her shoulders. It was more than he would have done with an acquaintance, but her distress was palpable. And really, after pretending to make out seventeen times in a row, touching her shoulders seemed pretty benign.
“Jasmine.” Her name came out low, his voice more gravelly than he’d intended. “Yes, I did google you, but—”
“But what?” she interrupted. Her tone was brittle, but she didn’t pull away from him. “Is that why you spilled coffee all over me? And why you’re avoiding me? Are you a giant McIntyre fan or something?”
He just stared at her, open-mouthed. A second later, they both burst into laughter.
Ashton stepped back and raised his hands in a shrug. “I don’t even know who the guy is,” he admitted. “But he seems like un pendejo, if you ask me.”
“He is,” Jasmine agreed vehemently. “The biggest pendejo.”
“And I swear, the coffee was an accident.”
Right then, the coffee maker sputtered, filling the room with a sweetly nutty scent, and they both turned to look at it.
“I’m just going to leave that alone,” Ashton muttered, and Jasmine’s lips pursed like she was holding back a smile.
“Probably for the best,” she said, then gestured at the small sofa. “Can I sit?”
He nodded, but a sinking feeling dragged at his gut. He had some idea of what had brought her here. It wouldn’t be the first time a female costar had proposed this, but it would be the first time in a long time he’d be tempted to say yes. Ever since Yadiel had been born, he had a strict policy against hooking up with costars. He’d tried dating with the intention of a relationship, but it had always gotten too complicated, and he’d finally given up. There was no room in his life for romance. Only the on-screen kind.
Although as Jasmine settled herself onto the sofa and crossed her long legs, he wished . . .
For something he couldn’t have.
“Are you going to sit down?” she asked.
“Ah, sí.” He perched on the rolling stool in front of the narrow counter.
“You disappeared pretty quickly,” she remarked.
“I had to make a phone call.”
She nodded, like she was waiting for him to offer more information, but when he didn’t, she went on.
“There’s something I wanted to propose—”
“Jasmine, I don’t think it’s such a good idea for us to—”
“You don’t want to run lines together?” Her eyebrows dipped with hurt.
He blinked. “Run lines?”
“Yeah. You know, practice memorizing our lines?”
“Of course. I mean, yes, I know what—”
“Why, what did you think I was going to—”
Carajo, he’d really stepped in it now. The back of his neck burned with embarrassment. “I thought . . . never mind.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Well, now you have to tell me.”
It was going to sound horrible, but she pinned him with such a direct look, he couldn’t think of a lie. “Ah, I thought you were going to . . . you know, suggest we . . .”
“What, sleep together?” she said, at the same time he said, “Practice kissing.”
Jasmine shot to her feet, then froze. “Wait, what?”
Ashton rubbed the back of his neck and wished he really could disappear. “I thought you were going to say we should practice kissing since we did such a terrible job of it today.”
She laughed. “No. I mean, yes, we did, but obviously that wasn’t going to be my suggestion.”
He gave a rueful smile. “Seventeen takes.”
“Exactly. I mean, that’s just embarrassing.”
“I was thinking the same thing before you got here,” he admitted. “It’s totally embarrassing. I keep waiting for someone to bust in and revoke my Romantic Hero Card.”
Her face broke into a grin. “Oh, stop.”
“Verdad. That’s who I thought was knocking.”
She laughed full out, and he was struck again by her beauty, but also her openness. He was seeing the real Jasmine.
And he liked her.
No hay lugar en tu vida para ella, he reminded himself.
Still chuckling, Jasmine resumed her seat. “I’m sorry I accused you of accusing me of trying to proposition you. And I agree, we shouldn’t practice kissing without Vera. But I do think she’s on to something.”
“Oh, yeah?” He couldn’t help smiling. “Which part? Vera has a lot to say.”
“The communication part.” Jasmine worried her lower lip with her teeth and Ashton wished she’d stop. It was too enticing. “I just . . . I feel like we don’t know each other. And you can’t tell me you don’t think it’s affecting our performances.”
“No. I can’t.” The words well enough echoed in his head.
Jasmine opened her shoulder bag and pulled out a script. “I brought episode four with me,” she said. “We should talk about the scenes we’re about to shoot, but I also think we need to debrief that terrible kiss.”
“It was pretty bad,” he agreed, then rushed to clarify. “Not you. But the whole thing . . .”
“We could’ve done better,” she finished for him, then let out a breath. “Okay, communication time. I’ll start by admitting that I was a little preoccupied.”
“Preoccupied?” he prompted, eager to hear what she meant.
“Well.” She shifted on the sofa like she was nervous, and her gaze darted away from his, ping-ponging around the room. “I can’t help feeling . . . like you’re mad at me.”
His brow creased. She thought he was mad at her? “What would I have to be angry about?” he asked. “If anything, you’re the one who should be mad at me for dumping an iced coffee on you.”
She grimaced. “Yes, that was very cold. But you always run off after we’re done filming, and never go out with the cast, so I . . . I thought it might be because of me.”
She sounded so unsure and sad, he rushed to reassure her. “Jasmine, te lo prometo, no estoy enojado contigo.”
When her brows drew together, he repeated the words in English. “I promise, I’m not mad at you.”
She dropped her gaze. “You’ve probably guessed that I can’t speak Spanish. Or at least, not fluently.”
“That did occur to me,” he said gently. “The audience won’t be able to tell, though. You’re doing great.”
She rolled her eyes, and he was alarmed to see the sheen of moisture in them. “I feel like a fraud.”
“Hey.” He reached out to touch her then, scooting forward on the chair and circling her wrist with his fingers. Aiming to soothe, he stroked his thumb over the soft skin there. “They cast you for a reason. Carmen is fierce. She commands the space around her. I’ve seen clips of your other shows. You have that power.”
She huffed out a humorless laugh. “I don’t always feel like it.”
Like a good scene partner, he matched her vulnerability with his own. “Jasmine, all I’ve ever wanted is to prove I’m more than just a telenovela hero. This is our chance to show everyone what we’re made of. Me, with my accent that will never go away no matter how hard I try, and you, with your Nuyorican roots and toddler-level Spanglish.”
She tried and failed to suppress a smile. “You’re making fun of me.”
“A little. It’s not often I have the upper hand, language-wise.” He grinned. “We’ll help each other, okay?” He released her wrist and sat back in his chair. “We’ll practice. We both have a lot riding on this.”
She gave him a shrewd look. “I’m trying to shift the narrative away from my love life. What are you hoping to get out of this show?”
“I want to prove that I’m good enough for Hollywood,” he said, then shrugged. “And yes, I want to make my last show regret killing my character off.”
“So this is why you have a reputation for being conceited,” she said with a smile.
“Conceited?” His eyes widened. “Who says that?”
“My cousins.” She laughed at his dismissive eye roll.
“I’m not conceited,” he scoffed. “I just want to be the best.”
Jasmine’s dark eyes sparkled with knowing, like she could see right through him. “I don’t think that’s it,” she said, smooth as silk. “I think you already think you’re the best, and you want everyone else to know it too.”
His response came out low and flirtatious. “So, you’ve figured me out, Jasmine Lin.”
Her eyes held his, and he could’ve sworn they were full of flames.
“Rodriguez,” she whispered.
“¿Qué?”
She licked her lips. “Jasmine Lin Rodriguez. That’s my full name.”
Before he could talk himself out of it, he took a tremendous chance. “Ángel Luis.”
At her quizzical look, he explained. “My name. It’s not Ashton. It’s Ángel Luis.”
She repeated it, nailing the accent. The sound of his name—his real name—on her lips shot heat through him.
Then she said, “I did wonder where your parents had gotten a name like Ashton from.”
And he laughed, breaking the tension. Tension he had no business encouraging. “They didn’t,” he admitted.
“Part of that big Hollywood goal?”
“Precisely.”
She held up the script. “We’d better work on getting you there, then.”
“Getting us there.” He rolled to the end of the counter and picked up his own script. “Where should we begin?”
“You can begin by telling me why you were so preoccupied during the last shoot,” she said, nailing him with a direct look. “I told you my reason.”
He busied himself flipping through the pages and told a half-truth. “My grandfather went to the ER today. I was waiting for news.”
Her face crumpled in concern. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Is everything okay? Is that why you went to Puerto Rico last weekend?”
Carajo, he
’d forgotten he’d told her that when he’d run into her in the elevator. “Yes, that’s why. And he’s fine. Just a cough he let go unchecked for too long. They gave him stronger medicine.”
“You must have been so worried,” she murmured, and to his surprise, her genuine distress hit him right in the chest. He couldn’t reply, so he just nodded.
“My grandparents mean the world to me,” she went on. “They’re getting older and I just . . . anyway, I get it. No wonder you were worried.”
“Does that include your grandmother who adores me?” he asked, flashing a grin.
She groaned and covered her face with the script. “Oh my god, you remember that?”
“Of course. I’m full of myself, as you pointed out. I always remember compliments.”
Laughing, she pretended to swat at him with the script. “Come on, let’s practice our lines before they call us back.”
Chapter 15
CARMEN IN CHARGE
EPISODE 4
Scene: Carmen and Victor have a heart-to-heart.
INT: Backstage tent at an outdoor concert—DAY
Carmen stormed into the tent with Victor close on her heels. As soon as the flap closed, she rounded on him, slapping a hand to his chest and squinting up at his face. She inhaled deeply, then stepped back, crossing her arms.
“I knew it.” She sent him an accusing glare. “You’re drunk.”
“Cálmate, Carmencita—”
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t tell me to calm down, and don’t call me Carmencita.”
“Fine, Carmen. But I’m not drunk. Just hungover.”
“Oh, that’s so much better.” She let out a short, humorless laugh and jammed her hands onto her hips. And completely ignored the thrill she got when he rolled the r in Carmen.
He was doing it again, like he had throughout their marriage. Forcing her into the position of authority, making her act like his mother. She hated when he did this, and his immaturity had ultimately led to the downfall of their marriage.