You Had Me at Hola(67)

There was a light tap on the door, and Jasmine opened it to let Nino and Lily in. They’d planned to meet in her trailer, since it was largest, before hitting up a nearby taqueria for drinks and a late dinner.

“Ready to go?” Nino asked.

“Almost. Make yourselves comfortable.” Jasmine rubbed moisturizer onto her face while her friends sat on the small sofa looking at videos of Nino’s dog. Just as Jasmine was applying lip gloss, there was another knock on the door.

Jasmine met Lily’s and Nino’s eyes in the mirror. “Did you invite someone else?”

When they shook their heads, she shrugged and went to open it. It was probably a PA with script updates. The writers on Carmen made more changes than Lady Gaga at an awards show.

Opening the door, Jasmine gave an involuntary gasp. Ashton stood on the metal steps, and even though they’d just been on set together, the sight of him there caused an answering tug in her solar plexus, some combination between desire and yearning. He was so handsome, with his own face freshly washed, dressed in a simple T-shirt and jeans. But it wasn’t his sex appeal that made her gasp. It was the recognition and surprise, the feeling of there you are, I’ve been waiting for you.

But she hadn’t been waiting, because she didn’t think he’d come. Except he had. And what was it he’d said earlier? Where were you?

Had he been looking for her?

“Jasmine, I . . .” He trailed off and his gaze drifted past her to where Nino and Lily sat on the sofa, waving cheerfully at him.

“We’re going for margaritas,” Lily called out to him. “Want to come?”

“No. Thank you.” Ashton gave them a brief smile, then looked back at Jasmine. “Just . . . saying good night.”

As he turned to leave, she caught the slight creasing of his brow, the tightening of his features, and before she knew what she was doing, she whispered, “Ashton.”

He paused and glanced over his shoulder, something wistful in his eyes. “Good night, querida.” Then he jogged down the stairs, away from her.

Jasmine inhaled, ready to shout for him to come back, but this time, she held the words in, even though they suffocated her.

He had been looking for her. Before and after they’d filmed. Seeing the others in her trailer had clearly thrown him off. Was he looking to get her alone? And if so, why?

Hope bloomed in her chest, and she didn’t know whether to nurture it like a flower or squash it like a roach. Either way, it pained her to see Ashton reverting to his old ways and turning down invitations to hang out with the cast. She wanted better for him. But she’d resolved to give him space, so she closed the trailer door and addressed her friends.

“Let’s go,” she said. “There’s a margarita out there with my name on it.”

AFTER LEAVING THE shoot, Ashton headed to the short-term rental on the Upper East Side that he’d booked for his family. He would have loved to have had them closer, but with all the paparazzi roaming around, he couldn’t chance it.

The irony of filming a scene about opening up to people and then turning around to go visit his secret family wasn’t lost on Ashton, but what could he do?

Although even Ashton had to admit nothing about this was normal.

It was late when he got there, and his father was the only one still awake. Ashton chatted with him briefly, peeked in on Yadiel’s sleeping form sprawled out on a twin bed, and left.

By the time he got back to the Hutton Court, Ashton was practically dead on his feet. He picked up his bag from the front desk, which production had retrieved from the hotel he’d stayed in the last few days, but when he stepped onto the elevator, he found himself pressing the button for Jasmine’s floor instead of his own. Then he found himself at her door, and before he could question his motives or talk himself out of it, he knocked.

It was late. She was probably sleeping, or still out with the others. He should go back to his room and go to bed. But just as he took a step back, the door opened.

He’d spent what felt like all night looking for a moment alone with her. And now here she was.

She wore a simple black tank top and gray shorts. She looked tired, but her eyes were alert.

He didn’t say anything. What was there to say when you showed up at a woman’s hotel room in the middle of the night? But she stepped back and let him in.

“Were you asleep?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “Couldn’t.”

And then he saw the TV was paused, and a lone glass of red wine sat on the coffee table.

“Come on.” She led him to the sofa, which had one of the hotel’s extra fleece blankets bunched up on it. She shoved the blanket aside and sat, leaving room for him to sit beside her. “Wine?”

“No, thanks.” He glanced at the TV. “What are you watching?”

“Real Housewives.” She looked at the screen, which was paused on a frame of two women shopping. “It’s what I watch when I can’t sleep.”

She picked up the remote, and just when he thought she was going to press play, she put it down again and turned to him.

There was a wary look in her eyes, and he knew she was going to ask him what he was doing there or why he’d come to her trailer. Slight panic rose in anticipation—he didn’t know what he was doing there. He didn’t know what he was doing, period. Everything was a mess.