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 Yadiel’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.