And yet here he was, outside her door.
He could tell himself it was because he wanted to bring out the best performances in both of them, and on some level, it was true.
But on another level, he just wanted to spend time with her.
No point standing around in the hallway where he could be spotted more easily. He lifted his fist and knocked.
A second later, the door swung inward, revealing Jasmine’s smiling face. “Hi,” she said brightly. “Come on in.”
He followed her into the hotel suite, which was laid out just like his—a small kitchen on the right, leading into a living room with a separate bedroom off to the side. It wasn’t trendy, but functional and spacious enough for a few months’ stay.
The room was quiet, and he was hyperaware of the fact that it was just the two of them. Most of their interactions took place with an audience present, or the potential for someone to interrupt them. But now, they were alone.
And there was a bed just behind that door . . .
Don’t think about the bed, cabrón. That’s not why you’re here.
“I figured you hadn’t eaten dinner yet either, so I ordered an antipasto plate.” Jasmine gestured toward the platter of sliced meat, cubed cheese, and olives set on the round dining table in the corner. A bottle of San Pellegrino sat in an ice bucket.
“I didn’t get any wine,” she added hastily when she saw him looking. “Because—”
“You were worried I’d spill it on you?” he joked to cut the tension building between them.
It worked. She laughed and shook her head. “I’m convinced that was an accident. No, I didn’t get wine because . . . um, we have an early day tomorrow.”
Ashton didn’t think that was why, but he didn’t press. Instead, he passed her a small gift bag.
“What’s this?” She peeked inside, then let out a surprised laugh. “Are you kidding me?”
He grinned as she withdrew a Café Bustelo coffee pod from the bag.
“To make up for the coffee I spilled,” he said. “I figured it was about time.”
Jasmine dropped the pod back into the bag with the others and sent him a sunny smile. “Unnecessary, but appreciated all the same. I’ll put them in the kitchen.”
While she was gone, Ashton took a seat at the table and poured them each a glass of seltzer. Jasmine came back and took the seat across from him.
After placing some prosciutto and goat cheese on his plate, Ashton opened his script. “All right, let’s get the context part over with.”
“This is the episode where Carmen pulls out the big guns—so to speak—to boost Victor’s public image,” she said, popping an olive in her mouth.
Ashton skimmed the scene notes. “We’ve got cute animals up for adoption and a visit to a children’s hospital.”
Jasmine held up the script to show him a page number. “Then Carmen and Victor have a heavy conversation about the future they never had together.”
“We should probably practice that part,” Ashton suggested. “Some of it is in Spanish too.”
“And we know I need a lot of practice with that,” Jasmine muttered, making a note in the margins of the script.
“Oye.” He waited until she looked up at him. “You’re being too hard on yourself. I know what it’s like to act in your second language, and you’re doing great.”
Her expression softened, making her look younger, lighter, and so damn sweet. “Thank you. But now I feel bad for complaining.”
“No offense, but I think my English is way better than your Spanish.” He grinned to show he was just teasing, and she laughed and covered her face with her hands.
“You’re right.” She pursed her lips in thought. “It’s weird how some of my cousins picked up more Spanish than others. For instance, my brother doesn’t speak it at all, but my cousin Ava is near fluent.”
“You said your grandparents were born in Puerto Rico?” he asked.
“My father’s parents were—he was born in New York, but Spanish was his first language. My mother’s parents were born in Hawaii, although my grandfather is Puerto Rican and my grandmother’s family was from the Philippines. Mom only speaks English, so all the Spanish I picked up was from being around my grandparents here in New York.”
He nodded, thinking about Yadiel, who spoke Spanish at home and English in school. “You have the diaspora experience on both sides.”
“It’s one of the things that drew me to Carmen,” she admitted, tapping the script. “She’s Nuyorican.”
“Y Victor es borinqueño.” Ashton smiled. “It’s rare to find ourselves so well-represented in pop culture.”
“Especially with such obvious parallels,” she muttered.
“What do you mean?”
Her lips curved in amusement. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? Our roles are reversed. I’ve got paparazzi hounding me, like Victor does. And you—”
“I avoid the media, which is more like Carmen.” He nodded slowly. “I see what you’re saying.”
She shrugged. “Except I also dated an internationally known singer, so I guess I do have something in common with Carmen after all.”
“You have more in common with her than you realize,” Ashton said in a quiet voice, wishing she could see herself the way he saw her. Strong, sexy, with a good heart.
Before he did something really stupid, like tell her how highly he thought of her, he picked up his seltzer and drank deep, hoping it would cool him down.
“It’s so interesting how the telenovela industry is growing while soaps are shrinking,” Jasmine mused. “We work so hard, but soaps still have a bad rep.”
“So do telenovelas,” Ashton pointed out. “Everyone thinks they’re low budget and ridiculous, but it’s a huge industry. So much of the culture comes out through the stories and characters. There’s romance and angst, imagination and emotion. They’ve come a long way, but when people think of telenovelas, they only think of the wild storylines of María la del barrio and Marimar, even though those shows achieved global popularity and Thalía’s now a Latin Pop icon.”
“Oh, yes, I remember those shows,” Jasmine said with a grin. “My aunt watched them when I was very little.”
He covered his eyes. “No me digas, you’re making me feel old. But that’s what I mean—telenovelas have something for everyone, and people watch as a family. I grew up watching with my mother and grandmother.”
“They must have been so proud when you started acting,” Jasmine said, her smile genuine.
“They were. My parents . . . they did everything they could to help me pursue this goal.” He cut himself off, because thinking about it made him think of his mother, which made him miss her.
His mother had always believed in him. She was his first and biggest fan, even when he was just doing children’s theater in elementary school. When he didn’t get the part he wanted or messed up his lines, she still praised him for trying, and always told him she was proud of him. At the time, he’d found her constant support almost suffocating. She said he was great when he knew he wasn’t, looked on the bright side when he wanted to wallow over rejection.