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 her 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.
The script began with Carmen discussing her goals for the family business with her sister before leaving for work. This section was in English, and while Ashton’s eyes followed along on the script, he’d be lying if he said he was paying attention. Instead, his mind took him on a downward spiral that started with spilled coffee and ended with tanking his career.
The next scene showed Carmen at work, interacting with her assistant, and then her father. Ashton tuned in enough to catch his cue from Peter, then sat up straight, calling on all his years of experience to speak his lines while mentally beating himself up for blowing his first impression with Jasmine.
They got through the reunion scene, but a later part called for an argument in Spanish.
“You have a lot of nerve coming back here to ask for my help,” Jasmine said from beside him.
Ashton was so attuned to her every movement, he didn’t miss his cue. His character shot back a retort, which he delivered in strong, rapid Spanish. He paused at the end of his lines, waiting for Jasmine’s response. It was supposed to start with, “¿Y quién diablos piensas que eres?” A sort of, “Who the hell do you think you are?” And then she would put him in his place.
Except Jasmine stumbled over her lines, messing up the vowels. She paused, stared intently at the script in front of her, and he imagined her repeating the words in her head. She started again and made it through the entire passage, albeit slowly, and without the fierceness she’d displayed when speaking her lines in English.
They finished the scene, but Jasmine’s difficulty with Spanish puzzled him. Ashton replayed the coffee moment over again in his head, recalling her long pause and the way she’d stared at him after his poor attempt at a joke . . .
Wait, was it possible she didn’t speak Spanish?
Carmen in Charge had a bilingual script, cast, and crew. It was a big part of the promo for the show. How was this going to work if the lead actress wasn’t fluent?
He listened to Jasmine work her way through a scene in Spanish with Miriam Perez. Maybe he wasn’t being fair. Jasmine’s accent was spot on, even if her pronunciation was a little inconsistent.
It was something he particularly worried about for himself. While his English was good, he still had an accent and sometimes came across idioms he didn’t immediately recognize or that didn’t translate easily to Spanish. Would wider American audiences accept a new leading man with a Puerto Rican accent? A few Spanish-speaking actors had achieved success—guys like Javier Bardem, Diego Luna, and Gael García Bernal. Was there still room in that lexicon for Ashton Suarez?
The sudden silence made him blink. Jasmine stared at him expectantly. No, not just Jasmine. Everyone was staring at him. Puñeta. It was his line.
In his rush to flip the page, Ashton knocked over his drinking glass. Lemon water splashed all over his script and the table. He shoved back his chair before it could get on his pants. To his left, Jasmine leaped out of her seat like she’d been stuck with a pin.