by Alexis Daria
“I’ll take care of the dry cleaning.” His expression was contrite, and the worry in his eyes made him look younger, more boyish.
“Don’t bother. They’re probably ruined.” It came out bitchier than she meant it to, so she added, “Anyway, they’re just clothes.”
Just clothes she’d spent two hours selecting, with her cousins’ help. She bit back a sigh. She didn’t want to make him feel bad, but fuck, this was inconvenient.
“I’m sorry for stepping on you,” Ashton said in a rush, as if belatedly realizing he hadn’t yet apologized. “And bumping into you. And spilling your coffee.”
She shrugged and sent him a rueful smile. “It was an accident. But I could have used the caffeine.”
He held up his own cup. “Do you want mine?”
Had he drunk from it yet? Didn’t matter. She’d soon be locking lips with this guy. And it would be rude to turn down his olive branch.
“Sure, thanks.” Their fingers brushed and she sucked in a trembling breath. To cover the blush rising in her cheeks, she quickly brought the cup to her lips. Took a sip. And gagged.
“Jeez, how much sugar did you put in there?”
He grimaced. “A lot?”
Jasmine shoved the cup back at him. “Thanks but I think I’ve had enough coffee for today.” She gestured at her shirt and his eyes followed her movement. Damn it, she’d drawn his attention back to the now-sheer blouse clinging to her breasts. Just brilliant.
With what seemed like great effort, Ashton dragged his gaze away from her chest and back to her eyes. His expression was bland, but she caught the ripple of his throat as he swallowed.
Her skin grew hot with embarrassment and, damn it, attraction. This was so not how she’d imagined their first meeting unfolding. She had to get out of here.
Jasmine waved a hand toward the green-room door. “I’m, ah . . . I’m going to go change.”
Into what, she had no idea.
He nodded. “Claro.”
“Um, bye.” Jasmine hurried out and hobbled to the bathroom.
A glance at her phone showed she had less than ten minutes before the table read began, and she was drenched in super strong coffee and coconut milk. Not wanting to be late on the first day, Jasmine flagged down an office assistant. The woman had shoulder-length blond hair and a nervous tilt to her eyebrows.
“Hi. I’m Jasmine Lin. What’s your name?”
“Penny.” Penny’s rosy skin paled as she took a horrified look at Jasmine’s coffee-splattered attire.
“As you can see, I’m having a wardrobe emergency.” Jasmine shoved all the cash in her wallet—a whopping thirty-four bucks—into Penny’s hand. “Can you please run down to the nearest store and buy me a change of clothes? I seem to be in need of a new outfit.”
Penny’s light eyebrows drew together. “What kind of outfit?”
“Whatever you can bring back in the next five minutes.” Jasmine gestured at the restroom door. “I’ll be in there cleaning coffee out of silk.”
With a nod, Penny hurried off, and Jasmine poked her head into the restroom. An older woman with smooth brown skin was washing her hands at one of the sinks. She wore a sharp gray bespoke suit and a patterned head scarf. She did a double take when she saw Jasmine’s clothes, then jerked a thumb at the accessible stall.
“That one has its own sink,” she said. “Looks like you’re going to need it.”
Jasmine thanked her profusely and locked herself inside the big stall. She stripped off the wet, clammy clothes and ran them under cold water in the sink.
She hated to admit it, but the coffee spill had been a welcome distraction. The quick flash of alarm at being soaked in ice-cold liquid had been easier to deal with than the equally quick jolt of desire when she’d laid eyes on Ashton, so she’d clung to it. Because in that moment, McIntyre and his stupid, soulful green eyes had also disappeared from her mind, along with all the anxiety and despair she’d carried since spotting a tabloid cover photo of him kissing another woman in Mexico.
Ashton’s horror at spilling coffee on her had been genuine and kind of adorable, but she had no business whatsoever noticing her new costar’s magnetism. This was her MO, after all. A spectacularly messy breakup—although this McIntyre thing was even messier than normal—followed by a stars-in-her-eyes crush on yet another emotionally unavailable man. Rebound, relationship, breakup—rinse and repeat.
Well, not this time, thank you very much. She was a Leading Lady now. Carmen in Charge was a big step up for her, and she wasn’t going to let an inconvenient attraction get in the way of making this role a success. No matter how sexy her costar might be.
ALONE IN THE green room, Ashton cleaned up the ice cubes from the floor, then slumped into a chair and scrubbed a hand over his face. Well, that had been a fucking disaster. He’d never forget the sight of Jasmine limping away with a crushed foot and a soaked blouse. She would forever think of him as the guy who’d ruined her first day on the job.
He sipped the coffee Jasmine had returned to him, although he was so tense, maybe more caffeine and sugar were a bad idea. When he saw her next, he would apologize profusely. He’d find some way to make it up to her . . . while also keeping his distance. Maybe they’d be able to laugh it off at some point. Before the table read started would be ideal, but that seemed like too much to hope for.
Still, he’d ruined her outfit, and should try to make it right.
But first . . . Ashton shut the door to the green room and pulled out his phone to FaceTime his father in Puerto Rico.
It rang a few times before Ignacio Suarez’s lined brown face appeared on the screen. “Hola, mijo.”
The words, a rushed baritone rumble, were the same greeting Ashton had heard from his father every day of his life, and they brought a smile to his face. “Hola, Pa. ¿Cómo estás?”
He listened while his father rattled off a report about Abuelito Gus and Abuelita Bibi’s health. Ashton’s mother had died ten years earlier, but Ignacio’s parents had always been a big part of Ashton’s life. They were in their eighties now, and their well-being was a major concern and a driving factor behind Ashton’s work ethic.
Another driving factor popped up on the screen, his messy hair and big brown eyes peeking out at Ashton and making his heart swell.
“¿Es mi papá?” a squeaky voice asked, and Ashton laughed.
“Sí, mijo, es tu papá,” he said.
On-screen, Ignacio backed away to make room for Yadiel, Ashton’s eight-year-old son.
Ashton listened intently as Yadiel filled him in on the last TV show he’d watched (Teen Titans Go), the video game he was currently obsessed with (Minecraft), and the comic book he was in the middle of reading (Spider-Man). Most of it went over Ashton’s head, and he wished, not for the first time, that he could be there with his son, to watch, play, and read with him.
Yadiel finished off with, “Papi, when are you coming back to Puerto Rico?”
“Not yet, Yadi.” Ashton didn’t have a better answer. Yadiel lived with Ignacio y los bisabuelos in Humacao while Ashton lived in Miami for most of the year. When Yadi had been born, he’d lived in Miami with Ashton. But after the Incident, Yadiel had gone to live with Ignacio, and Ashton had sold the house and moved into a high-rise condo instead.
When Yadiel was younger, Ashton had been able to spend more time at home with him in Puerto Rico. But as his career had taken off and Yadi started attending a private school, there’d been less time for making the two-and-a-half-hour flight from Miami to San Juan every weekend.
After Hurricane Maria wreaked havoc on the island, the federal government’s absolute failure to provide resources and aid and unwillingness to treat the people of Puerto Rico as the American citizens they were by right of birth had prompted Ashton to move his family to Miami for a time. He’d loved having them closer and being able to see Yadiel nearly every day. But the whole time, he couldn’t stop remembering what had happened when Yadiel had lived there before. Once Ya
diel’s school reopened, they’d gone back.
Ashton missed his son with a depth that had no end, but growing up on the island, away from the chaos of the entertainment industry, was what was safest for the boy. Ashton would have loved to spend the summer hanging out with Yadiel in Puerto Rico, but bills had to be paid, and now that Ashton was financially responsible for four generations of his family, there were a lot of bills—especially after making repairs to the family restaurant, which now served half the customers it once did.
“Has anything funny happened on set?” Yadiel asked. He enjoyed hearing behind-the-scenes stories “from Papi’s work.”
“Well, it’s only the first day, but . . . yes, something happened.”
Yadiel’s eyes went wide as Ashton told him about spilling coffee on Jasmine. Ashton mimed the movements, added sound effects, and cast himself in the role of the bumbling idiot for his son’s amusement. Yadiel was chortling with laughter by the time he was done, and Ashton’s spirits lifted. He loved making his son laugh. Maybe someday he’d have the opportunity to do more comedy in his career.
A knock sounded on the door. “Ashton? Are you in there?”
Uh-oh. Yadiel was the reason Ashton kept his private life locked away. He wanted his son to have as normal an upbringing as possible, even if it meant spending time apart. Ashton had experienced some alarming moments with fans early in his career—he’d never forget the terror of hearing glass breaking in his son’s nursery—so he did everything in his power to keep Yadiel safe, protected, and secret.
Ashton blew a kiss into the phone and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Ciao, mi amor.”
“Bye, Papi.”
Disconnecting the call, Ashton called, “Pase,” then repeated it in English, just in case. “Come in.”
Marquita Arroyo, the showrunner and a fellow Boricua, stuck her head inside. She was tall, with fair skin, a mass of spiraling curls, and a big smile. “Hey there. We have some people who want to meet you before the table read begins.”
Ashton took a final swig of coffee, then set it aside. Showtime.
JASMINE STOOD IN the empty ladies’ restroom in her underwear, trying to dry her bra under the hand dryer while she was still wearing it, when someone knocked on the outer door and called out, “Hello? I have your clothes.”
“In here!” Jasmine scurried back into the stall and stuck her head out. Penny rushed in and handed her a plastic “I Heart New York” bag with folded items inside.
“I hope these work,” Penny said, sounding uncertain. “There weren’t a whole lot of options, and you’d be surprised how much tourist wear costs.”
Jasmine clutched the bag to her chest and eased back into the stall. “I’m sure they’re fine. Thank you so much!”
Jasmine tore into the bag—and froze. Shit, maybe she should have been more specific about what kind of outfit.
The nylon running shorts were black, at least, and devoid of any logo. They were shorter than she would have liked, but not the shortest thing she’d ever worn in a professional setting. She’d make them work.
The T-shirt, on the other hand . . .
Jasmine unfolded it and stared. It was fuchsia with black trim, a hood, and NYC emblazoned across the front in sketchy white block letters. Tacky, yes, but that was to be expected when buying clothes in a souvenir shop. More worryingly, however, was that it was very, very small.
Jasmine took a closer look at the tags and sighed. It was a size medium . . . for a child. Both articles of clothing had clearance tags, and still came out to thirty-three and change. Apparently thirty-four dollars hardly got you anything these days.
She stuck her head out of the stall, but Penny was long gone. Probably scared Jasmine would bite her head off or ask her to switch clothes. Which, in hindsight, might have been a better idea. Too late now.
She glanced at her blouse, which was currently soaked and still bore faint brown stains, and then her watch. She was out of time.
Jasmine wrestled herself into the shirt, which fit—just barely—like a crop top. The material was thick but stretchy. It was especially tight in the shoulders, but it covered her boobs more than a wet white silk blouse would. She shoved her wet clothes into the plastic bag and exited the stall, then caught sight of herself in the bathroom’s full-length mirror.
Between the child-sized shirt, the gym shorts, the black heels, and her sparkly gold jewelry, she was certainly rocking some kind of look, albeit not one that said Leading Lady. More like Sporty Spice on a hot date. Maybe coffee-splattered wouldn’t have been so bad, but she didn’t have time to dry everything with the bathroom’s weak-ass hand dryer.
Then she remembered her grandmother’s adage: If you’re not wearing lipstick and earrings, you might as well be naked.
After freshening up her dark magenta lipstick, Jasmine snapped a photo of her reflection, then sent it to Ava and Michelle in their Primas of Power group text. Time to call in the hype squad.
Ava answered first.
Ava: Um, what are you wearing?
Michelle’s reply came a second later.
Michelle: Hawt.
Jasmine: I had a run in with an iced coffee.
Quick, tell me I’m still pretty.
Michelle replied with an animated GIF of Natalie Wood in West Side Story, twirling and saying, “I feel pretty!”
Ava added one of Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl saying, “Hello, gorgeous.”
It would have to do. Jasmine tossed her hair, squared her shoulders, and cocked a hand on her hip. “Make jefa moves, remember?” she told her reflection.
Inside, she didn’t believe that for a second, but she was a good enough actress that her embarrassment didn’t show on her face.
Then she exited the bathroom and strutted into that table read like she was on a motherfucking runway.
Chapter 4
Between the chat with Yadiel and a series of increasingly positive interactions with the showrunner, the first assistant director, and the director for episode one, Ashton’s confidence came roaring back. After working in TV for more than fifteen years, the bustle felt like home, more so than his apartment in Miami or his suite at the Hutton Court did. Sure, there was a lot riding on this role, but he could do this. He was one of the best in his industry—no, not one of the best, the best—and he was here to show American audiences—plus the casting agents and producers—what he could do. No sweat.
He followed Marquita to the conference room where the table read would be held. Tons of people milled about in the hallway, including ScreenFlix execs, producers, writers, and a few of the actors Ashton recalled from the show notes. It had been a long time since he’d joined a new cast where he didn’t know a single person. All he wanted to do was slip into the room and find his seat, but he introduced himself to Peter Calabasas, a longtime TV actor who’d play Carmen’s father. Peter, a barrel-chested Afro-Latinx man with a dark beard, was easy to talk to, and they quickly struck up a lively conversation about baseball.
Then Jasmine strolled in and Ashton did a double take.
She was still gorgeous and mouth-wateringly sexy, but . . . what the hell was she wearing?
She’d gotten a new outfit from somewhere, and while her hair and makeup were still flawless, she looked like a fitness model who’d wandered into the wrong room, not the star of a show about a fierce PR exec.
Guilt washed over Ashton. How would he feel if he had to show up on his first day in gym shorts? Sure, some actors dressed casually for table reads. Three of the others were wearing jeans. But being the title character carried a sense of leadership. It wasn’t uncommon to make more of an effort at the beginning, to put on professional airs, at least before the fourteen-hour work days had everyone battling exhaustion. Ashton wasn’t the title character, but as one of the leads and the show’s love interest, he’d dressed up in a crisp blue button-down shirt and black slacks with Italian leather loafers.
Jasmine, as he’d seen her that morning, had shown up looking he
r very best. Even covered in coffee, it was clear her outfit had been stylish and sophisticated. She’d even said as much, but he’d been so mortified, it had gone right over his head. Because of his mistake, she now looked like she was on her way to the gym . . . in high heels.
He felt like an ass all over again. Had he really only offered her his coffee and a half-hearted attempt to pay for her dry cleaning? What the hell was wrong with him? She was never going to forgive him, and he couldn’t blame her.
“All right, let’s begin!” Marquita clapped her hands.
Everyone quieted and crowded inside to find their seats around the conference table. Tented white card stock with the actors’ names printed on them marked the assigned seats. At each spot, there was a script, a short stack of index cards, a cup, and a glass carafe filled with water and lemon slices.
As one of the show’s main characters, Ashton was seated right next to Jasmine—something he’d been too preoccupied to even think about before this moment.
He slid into the uncomfortable metal chair and busied himself with flipping through the script, his whole body on high alert as Jasmine took her place beside him. He snuck a glance her way, noting the slide of her long—bare—legs as she crossed them under the table.
“Sorry again,” he muttered under his breath, but she didn’t look at him. A shrug of one shoulder was the only clue she’d heard him.
The other show regulars took their places around the table. On Jasmine’s other side was Miriam Perez, the actress who would play her mother, and Nino Colón, the trans actor who’d play Carmen’s assistant. Miriam was lightly tanned with dyed blonde curls, and Nino had rich brown skin and a stylish haircut. To Ashton’s right sat Peter Calabasas as well as Lily Benitez, who’d been cast as Carmen’s sister. Lily had a mane of dark waves and wore bright red lipstick that complemented her bronze complexion.
Before they started, Marquita introduced herself and welcomed everyone with a short speech. Then she had all the actors introduce themselves in order. Ashton struggled to concentrate, but he noted the range of different entertainment backgrounds among the actors. He’d done telenovelas. Jasmine’s background was in soap operas. Lily had started out as a plus-size lingerie model. Nino had been a dancer on Broadway. Miriam had done stand-up and sketch comedy in the 1980s and 90s. And Peter had been working steadily in TV for thirty years, from sitcoms to police procedurals.
