You Had Me at Hola(23)

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.

It had been a long time since he’d workshopped a scene with such deliberate attention to detail, and he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed this aspect of acting. Most of the shows he’d been on adopted a quick and dirty approach to getting the footage, relying on heightened emotion and over-the-top theatrics.

This was . . . nice, he decided. More calming, despite the awkwardness.

“Let’s take it through with the lines,” Vera told him, and he took his spot at the counter.

When Ilba gave the signal, Ashton slid closer to Jasmine. With his arms crossed over his chest, he tapped into Victor’s easy charm—something he wished he could employ more in his real life—and grinned. “Do you think I have a chance at winning?”

Jasmine looked up at him from under long lashes. She pursed her lips before she answered, like she was thinking about what he’d said.

“I think so. If you remember every step of the recipe, execute it all perfectly, and finish on time.”

He raised his eyebrows. “No pressure.”

She softened then. Nothing obvious, but still, a noticeable easing of her stance, her tone, her expression. Her words were serious, not sarcastic, as she repeated, “No pressure.”

This was it. Time for him—Victor—to make his move. Uncrossing his arms in a slow movement, Ashton raised his hand.

Suddenly, Vera was there, close to them.

“Stay in the moment,” she said in a hushed voice. She took Ashton’s hand and gently brought it to Jasmine’s cheek.

Ashton positioned his hand on the side of Jasmine’s face the way Vera directed it. His fingers slid over Jasmine’s jaw to curl around the side of her neck, under her ear. Her skin was so warm. He had a flash of pressing his mouth there. How would she feel against his lips?

“Say your line.” Vera’s words were faint, barely interrupting the tension spinning out between the three of them.

Ashton dropped his voice. “You have something here.” With Vera’s hand over his, Ashton’s thumb came to rest on the curve of Jasmine’s cheekbone. Vera gave the digit a little nudge, and Ashton stroked Jasmine’s cheek in a soft, gentle glide. Then Vera shifted, resting her hands on Jasmine’s upper arms. Slowly, Jasmine rose up from her elbows. Her dark eyes stayed locked on Ashton’s, even as Vera moved her like a doll, or a puppet. But Vera wasn’t controlling them—no, she was guiding. They’d given her permission, given each other permission. They’d consented to this, and there was power in that. Vera was part of this.

And damn if it wasn’t incredibly intimate.

Jasmine’s lashes dropped a fraction, and Ashton marveled at how easily she turned on the bedroom eyes. Then the corner of her full lips pinched into the barest trace of a smile as Carmen called Victor’s bluff. “No, I don’t.”

Ashton was struck by the mixture of humor, lust, and . . . trust in this moment, between the characters. It formed a heady swirl of emotions that the viewers would eat up. But he had to nail this next part.