“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.