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.