by Alexis Daria
In the midst of fantasizing, Jasmine also experienced a spark of pride for the show’s writers. The change was very much in character for Victor, especially after he’d insisted Carmen be his red-carpet date in the second episode, and it allowed for more up close and personal on-screen interaction between Carmen and Victor, which the viewers would love.
The only downside was that Jasmine now had new lines to learn, and a dance routine. But she was excited. She went to sleep that night with a smile on her face.
When she arrived at the dance studio the next day, worry gnawed at her. Would Ashton pull away from her again after possibly being photographed in the grocery store? But her fear was surpassed by her anticipation at getting to dance with him. She swung by craft services for a protein bar and coffee, then hurried inside the real dance studio where they would rehearse.
A PA directed her to a spacious room, complete with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a ballet barre, sound system, and shiny light wood floor. Narrow windows overlooked Forty-Fifth Street.
Jess and Nik, the dancers who’d been hired to choreograph Carmen and Victor’s salsa, were beautiful, professional, and—Jasmine could tell just from the way they looked at each other—100 percent in love with each other. Jess was petite, with creamy brown skin and gorgeous curls. Nik had a quick smile and a thick Brooklyn accent, and he moved like a leopard.
The first thing the dancers asked, after introductions, was whether Jasmine and Ashton had any experience dancing salsa. When they both nodded, Jess clapped her hands in delight.
“Well, that just makes things so much easier, doesn’t it?”
Nik turned on a Gloria Estefan song. “Why don’t you two show us a little of what you can do?”
Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat. This was the opposite of what they’d done with Vera, who outlined and directed every move before they made it. While it had initially been weird, it also took away the awkwardness of just jumping into an intimate encounter with the other actor—which, she supposed, was the whole point of having an intimacy coordinator attached to the production. Today, they were on their own.
Ashton held out his hand and Jasmine met his eyes. She’d have killed to know what he was thinking right then. Was he excited to dance with her? Annoyed? She couldn’t tell. But she took his hand, and just like that, they were dancing.
Years of ingrained muscle memory took over. Jasmine had learned these moves at a very young age, and had danced them with her abuelos and tíos at every wedding, birthday, and christening she’d ever attended. Her spine arched into the proper pose as her feet picked up the beat and her hips connected to the rhythm. Salsa music was in her blood, the combination of congas, trumpets, and smoky vocals flowing through her and begging her to move with them.
And Ashton . . .
Ashton knew how to lead.
He took her through spins and twirls, giving her slight cues through his hand on her back, or a tug on her fingers. She moved to the music, following his guidance, all of her attention glued to him. There was a light in his eyes she’d never seen before, and his lips curved in a confident smile that had her melting inside.
Now she knew why he’d said he wasn’t nervous about dancing. He was amazing at this.
Their dance only lasted a few seconds before Nik turned the music off, and Jasmine’s heart cried out for more. She was breathing fast when she turned to face the others, but it wasn’t from exertion.
Ashton had left her breathless.
And he was still holding her hand.
He gave her fingers the slightest squeeze, then released her. And Jasmine’s treasonous heart soaked it up like it was a declaration of love.
“You two clearly have moves,” Nik said, coming over to join them.
“And chemistry,” Jess added, beaming. “This makes our job a lot easier, as we can focus on form and choreography. Sound good?”
They got to work, and it was the most fun Jasmine could remember having on set in a long time. No offense to Vera.
When the day was over, Jasmine was tired, but exhilarated. For the first time, she let herself imagine the audience response to Carmen. It was something she shut off while filming, because if she acted with the audience reaction in mind, it would trap her in her own head and damage the performance. But with the way the last few episodes had gone, she was sure people would love it.
She just hoped enough of them watched to warrant a second season. She was growing to adore Carmen and Victor, and she was curious to see what the writers would do with more episodes.
Riding high, Jasmine stopped Ashton on his way to their double-banger trailer and made the offer before her common sense could catch up.
“Want to practice tonight?” she asked, her voice nonchalant. “You can swing by my room.”
He looked at her for a moment that seemed to last forever while she waited for his answer.
In the back of her mind, common sense finally piped up like a warning alarm.
Bad idea bad idea bad id—
“Sure,” he said, and she couldn’t stop the flash of pleasure she felt at his agreement.
The voice of common sense nagged at her as she entered her side of the trailer, through changing and removing her makeup, and into the black SUV that would drive her back to the Hutton Court. Finally, she couldn’t ignore it anymore and reached out to the Primas of Power.
Jasmine: Help. I’ve done something incredibly stupid.
Chapter 18
Ashton didn’t know what had possessed him to accept Jasmine’s invitation.
Well, he did—it was pure, ill-advised lust, currently on overdrive after dancing with her all day—but he still should have turned her down. There were so many reasons to be careful about meeting with fellow actors in private places.
Not that he thought she had ulterior motives. He believed her when she said she wanted to rehearse. Their performances had clearly improved since they’d started hanging out together, but he was still wary of anyone finding out what they were up to. The grocery store was bad enough. Going to her hotel room after hours was amateur shit, just begging to be caught.
And yet here he was, outside her door.
He could tell himself it was because he wanted to bring out the best performances in both of them, and on some level, it was true.
But on another level, he just wanted to spend time with her.
No point standing around in the hallway where he could be spotted more easily. He lifted his fist and knocked.
A second later, the door swung inward, revealing Jasmine’s smiling face. “Hi,” she said brightly. “Come on in.”
He followed her into the hotel suite, which was laid out just like his—a small kitchen on the right, leading into a living room with a separate bedroom off to the side. It wasn’t trendy, but functional and spacious enough for a few months’ stay.
The room was quiet, and he was hyperaware of the fact that it was just the two of them. Most of their interactions took place with an audience present, or the potential for someone to interrupt them. But now, they were alone.
And there was a bed just behind that door . . .
Don’t think about the bed, cabrón. That’s not why you’re here.
“I figured you hadn’t eaten dinner yet either, so I ordered an antipasto plate.” Jasmine gestured toward the platter of sliced meat, cubed cheese, and olives set on the round dining table in the corner. A bottle of San Pellegrino sat in an ice bucket.
“I didn’t get any wine,” she added hastily when she saw him looking. “Because—”
“You were worried I’d spill it on you?” he joked to cut the tension building between them.
It worked. She laughed and shook her head. “I’m convinced that was an accident. No, I didn’t get wine because . . . um, we have an early day tomorrow.”
Ashton didn’t think that was why, but he didn’t press. Instead, he passed her a small gift bag.
“What’s this?” She peeked inside, then let out a surpris
ed laugh. “Are you kidding me?”
He grinned as she withdrew a Café Bustelo coffee pod from the bag.
“To make up for the coffee I spilled,” he said. “I figured it was about time.”
Jasmine dropped the pod back into the bag with the others and sent him a sunny smile. “Unnecessary, but appreciated all the same. I’ll put them in the kitchen.”
While she was gone, Ashton took a seat at the table and poured them each a glass of seltzer. Jasmine came back and took the seat across from him.
After placing some prosciutto and goat cheese on his plate, Ashton opened his script. “All right, let’s get the context part over with.”
“This is the episode where Carmen pulls out the big guns—so to speak—to boost Victor’s public image,” she said, popping an olive in her mouth.
Ashton skimmed the scene notes. “We’ve got cute animals up for adoption and a visit to a children’s hospital.”
Jasmine held up the script to show him a page number. “Then Carmen and Victor have a heavy conversation about the future they never had together.”
“We should probably practice that part,” Ashton suggested. “Some of it is in Spanish too.”
“And we know I need a lot of practice with that,” Jasmine muttered, making a note in the margins of the script.
“Oye.” He waited until she looked up at him. “You’re being too hard on yourself. I know what it’s like to act in your second language, and you’re doing great.”
Her expression softened, making her look younger, lighter, and so damn sweet. “Thank you. But now I feel bad for complaining.”
“No offense, but I think my English is way better than your Spanish.” He grinned to show he was just teasing, and she laughed and covered her face with her hands.
“You’re right.” She pursed her lips in thought. “It’s weird how some of my cousins picked up more Spanish than others. For instance, my brother doesn’t speak it at all, but my cousin Ava is near fluent.”
“You said your grandparents were born in Puerto Rico?” he asked.
“My father’s parents were—he was born in New York, but Spanish was his first language. My mother’s parents were born in Hawaii, although my grandfather is Puerto Rican and my grandmother’s family was from the Philippines. Mom only speaks English, so all the Spanish I picked up was from being around my grandparents here in New York.”
He nodded, thinking about Yadiel, who spoke Spanish at home and English in school. “You have the diaspora experience on both sides.”
“It’s one of the things that drew me to Carmen,” she admitted, tapping the script. “She’s Nuyorican.”
“Y Victor es borinqueño.” Ashton smiled. “It’s rare to find ourselves so well-represented in pop culture.”
“Especially with such obvious parallels,” she muttered.
“What do you mean?”
Her lips curved in amusement. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? Our roles are reversed. I’ve got paparazzi hounding me, like Victor does. And you—”
“I avoid the media, which is more like Carmen.” He nodded slowly. “I see what you’re saying.”
She shrugged. “Except I also dated an internationally known singer, so I guess I do have something in common with Carmen after all.”
“You have more in common with her than you realize,” Ashton said in a quiet voice, wishing she could see herself the way he saw her. Strong, sexy, with a good heart.
Before he did something really stupid, like tell her how highly he thought of her, he picked up his seltzer and drank deep, hoping it would cool him down.
“It’s so interesting how the telenovela industry is growing while soaps are shrinking,” Jasmine mused. “We work so hard, but soaps still have a bad rep.”
“So do telenovelas,” Ashton pointed out. “Everyone thinks they’re low budget and ridiculous, but it’s a huge industry. So much of the culture comes out through the stories and characters. There’s romance and angst, imagination and emotion. They’ve come a long way, but when people think of telenovelas, they only think of the wild storylines of María la del barrio and Marimar, even though those shows achieved global popularity and Thalía’s now a Latin Pop icon.”
“Oh, yes, I remember those shows,” Jasmine said with a grin. “My aunt watched them when I was very little.”
He covered his eyes. “No me digas, you’re making me feel old. But that’s what I mean—telenovelas have something for everyone, and people watch as a family. I grew up watching with my mother and grandmother.”
“They must have been so proud when you started acting,” Jasmine said, her smile genuine.
“They were. My parents . . . they did everything they could to help me pursue this goal.” He cut himself off, because thinking about it made him think of his mother, which made him miss her.
His mother had always believed in him. She was his first and biggest fan, even when he was just doing children’s theater in elementary school. When he didn’t get the part he wanted or messed up his lines, she still praised him for trying, and always told him she was proud of him. At the time, he’d found her constant support almost suffocating. She said he was great when he knew he wasn’t, looked on the bright side when he wanted to wallow over rejection.
Now, he would have given anything to have one more second with her, so he could introduce her to Yadiel. His biggest triumph. It was cliché, but Yadi was his pride and his joy, and he mourned every day that his mother had never seen his son, and that Yadiel would never know her love. In those moments of darkest grief, he wished Yadiel had a mother who loved him as much as Ashton’s had. But he couldn’t change how things had turned out, and he wouldn’t anyway. Everything that had happened led to him being Yadiel’s father, and he wouldn’t give that up for anything.
Guilt pricked him, sharp and swift. Wasn’t he giving that up in pursuit of his career? Shoving off the responsibility onto his father and his aging grandparents?
Jasmine, oblivious to the direction of his thoughts, carried on, and he latched onto her words to pull him out of the dark.
“My abuela is a huge telenovela fan, but my other grandmother watches American soaps,” she said, adding more olives and meat to her plate. “I started watching The Young and the Restless and The Bold and the Beautiful while visiting my mom’s parents’ on summer vacation. But my absolute favorite, which I will deny if you ever tell anyone, was Passions.”
“Passions?” His eyebrows shot up. “The one with the—”
“Yes,” she said with a laugh. “The one with the everything. It was so over the top, I couldn’t get enough. But keep in mind, I was probably eight when it started, so not exactly the most discriminating viewer.”
“Eight?” He groaned. “You’re making me feel old again. I think I was in high school then.”
“All right, viejo, what was your favorite? I told you mine.”
He didn’t love that she’d called him an old man, but that she’d said it in Spanish, and as a term of endearment, pleased him. “Café, con aroma de mujer because . . . well, because it was about coffee.”
Jasmine snickered. “How very on brand for you.”
Ashton piled more food on his plate, surprised he’d already finished the first serving. He was enjoying talking to her. This was way better than fitting in a second workout or channel surfing alone in his suite. “How did you get into soaps?”
“I was doing commercials and my agent booked me an under-five role on General Hospital. I was living the dream! That led to a stint on Days, and then a slightly bigger role on Y&R, and then I did Sunrise Vista. It didn’t last long, but it got me on The Glamour Squad—”
“And then you got a Daytime Emmy nomination.” He clapped. “You should be proud.”
She shrugged. “I am, but I’m not doing it for the accolades; I just want to be a working actor with consistent gigs. I don’t want to struggle. And both of my grandmothers are over the moon about it, even if the rest of my famil
y acts like I don’t have a quote-unquote real job.”
“I feel the opposite about telenovelas,” he admitted. “I’m proud of the work I’ve done and the awards I’ve received, but they mean nothing if I can’t break out.”
“Nothing?” She raised an eyebrow. “Now you sound like Victor.”
He laughed. “God forbid. And don’t get me wrong. This work is important. We’re normalizing people who look and sound like us being happy and successful.”
“But you want to be in Hollywood movies?”
He took a long drink of seltzer, wishing it were something stronger. “I do.”
“Why keep working in TV if you hate it so much?” she asked, a slight frown on her face.
The question made him fidget, and he wasn’t sure why. “I don’t hate TV, but I’m tired. Telenovelas were supposed to be a stepping stone to the next level. I just didn’t expect to get stuck there for so long. My hope is that Carmen will be the project that bridges the gap.”
Jasmine stared at him over the antipasto platter with a dazzling, intense gaze. “I think you secretly love it,” she said in a low voice. “Eliciting an emotional reaction from the audience? It’s like the best drug there is. Soaps and telenovelas—we’re experts at it. Love. Hate. Passion. You live for the viewer reactions. You crave them.”
Lulled into a spell by her words and the silky tone of her voice, he lowered his own as well. They were getting into dangerous ground, and he didn’t care. “And what reaction do I elicit from you?”
She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Nada.”
Heat bloomed in his belly and spread. “Ay, linda. Estás mintiendo.”
You’re lying.
Jasmine opened her mouth to reply—and was interrupted by a brusque knock on the door. A chorus of voices called out, “Jaaaaaasmine, we’re heeeeere!”
His eyes shot to hers. He yearned to know what she would’ve said, but the impulse was tempered by a growing sense of horror and betrayal.