“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.”