You Had Me at Hola(6)

The big deal was that Ashton was almost forty, and after fifteen years, he was spinning his wheels in the telenovela landscape because he believed it would eventually catapult him beyond. He was waiting for the chance to prove himself and instead, he’d been removed from the show early.

He still had no idea if he’d done something to piss off an exec or if the viewers were just tired of him. There’d been a minor outcry on social media when the episode aired, but by then it had been too late. In the meantime, he’d only managed to book a couple of pilot episodes that didn’t seem likely to get picked up.

So when the call came in for Carmen in Charge, Ashton had leaped at the chance. He was a last-minute replacement, scooped up by the casting gods thanks to a taped audition his agent had sent on a whim. Even though it was a telenovela remake, ScreenFlix would get him in front of a broader audience, and hopefully on the path to becoming the next Javier Bardem.

In the back of his mind, though, he worried this would be his last shot. If this didn’t work out, where would it leave him?

Carajo. So much for not thinking about it. On the outside, he was cool and collected as he followed Skye through the office space, passing glassed-in offices and open-plan desk areas where people worked at their computers. No one even looked at him—they were probably used to actors walking through here all the time—but he still felt exposed.

On the inside? He was struggling not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.

Skye stopped in front of an open doorway and gestured with a flourish. “Your coffee awaits,” they said, and Ashton pulled himself together long enough to smile and thank them.

The green room had a small kitchenette attached to it, with three different kinds of coffee makers. Even though it was just after eight in the morning, his first cup had been over three hours ago, and he needed the pick-me-up. And since he was feeling stressed, he opted to indulge his sweet tooth with one of the French vanilla coffee pods in the basket.

Once it was brewing, Ashton checked his watch. He’d meet Jasmine for the first time in twenty minutes, at the table read. It was stupid to feel so nervous. She worked in soap operas, which had a grueling production schedule similar to that of telenovelas, where they could sometimes film an episode a day. That meant she likely had a good work ethic and would be totally professional—traits he could admire in a scene partner. He’d do his best to be charming and make sure they got off on the right foot. It would be fine.

Except for one thing.

After getting the role, Ashton had googled Jasmine, expecting to find the usual—a Wikipedia page with her headshot and birthday, an IMDb listing with all her acting roles, her social media accounts, maybe some YouTube clips. Instead, he’d been surprised to see the first results were recent news stories about her breakup with some musician he’d never heard of who only went by one name.

McIntyre, a lanky guy with greasy hair, tattoos, and a guitar, was known for his disaffected attitude and crooning vocals. Ashton’s first thought when he’d seen pictures of the guy was “cut your damn hair,” and then he worried that meant he was getting old. He also wondered what Jasmine had ever seen in the guy, then chastised himself. He had no business wondering or judging.

The tabloids were having a field day with the story. And as much as Ashton sympathized with Jasmine, he didn’t want to get dragged into the media circus surrounding her. He already struggled to keep his personal life out of the Latinx entertainment news, and he’d have to be extra careful not to do or say anything that would give English-language tabloids reason to pay more attention to him. Being costars was often enough to start rumors, and Jasmine was stunningly beautiful, which already made them prime bait for a behind-the-scenes romance rumor. Not her fault, but people often looked for stories that weren’t there. Truth was, Ashton had no time for romance, behind the scenes or otherwise. But the press didn’t care about what was true—only what sold magazines or got clicks. Aside from work, he would have to keep his distance from Jasmine.

With his cup filled with sweet, caffeinated nectar, Ashton took his time adding more sugar and cream. With as much energy as he put in at the gym and monitoring his diet, fixing his coffee just the way he liked it was one of his only remaining vices. Once he was done, he stepped back from the table, intending to find his new costar to introduce himself.

Instead, his heel landed on something that wasn’t linoleum, and someone behind him let out a high-pitched yelp.

Ashton spun in surprise, colliding with a body. There was a splash, followed by a clattering sound. The smell of coffee intensified. And he stared in horror at the sight of a woman wearing a white blouse and soft pink slacks, now splattered and dripping with foamy brown stains. Ice cubes scattered on the tiles around her stiletto-clad feet.

It would have been bad enough to spill coffee on anyone during his first day on the job, but this was not just any woman. It was Jasmine Lin, his new costar. She was gorgeous—her golden skin glowed against the white of her wet shirt, now clinging to her torso and breasts—but at the moment, she looked like she wanted to murder him. Her dark brows set in a fierce scowl, and her full lips parted over clenched teeth. The nerves he’d battled all morning took over and came out of his mouth.

“Um, hola.” Trying for a joke, he gestured at the half-empty cup in her hand. “Supongo que no te ibas a beber eso.”

When she just stared at him, mouth hanging open, his stomach sank. So much for getting off on the right foot.