If Ava and Michelle were suggesting she stay away, it meant the stories were still circulating. The last magazine she’d seen had claimed she was sending McIntyre late-night texts begging him to take her back. In reality, she’d blocked his number from her phone, but the lies still hurt.

Stupid McIntyre. She couldn’t even kill time scrolling on Instagram because of him.

She didn’t think she’d thrown herself at him, per se, as one particularly nasty “anonymous source” had claimed, but, with the clarity of hindsight, she knew that she’d done everything in her power to make him feel loved and appreciated. The way she wanted to feel.

Clingy. Obsessive. Desperate. Embarrassing.

Those were the kinds of words that showed up in the gossip pieces, but they weren’t new to her. She’d been accused of being clingy ever since middle school, after Everett Giordano dumped her in sixth grade. She’d sprawled on her bedroom floor listening to her sister’s Alanis Morissette CD for a week after that, because that’s what she’d seen girls in movies do after a breakup. Everett had been the first to shatter her heart, but not the last. And eventually she’d gotten much better about breakups.

No, not breakups. Getting dumped. Just like the magazine cover on her grandmother’s refrigerator door declared. Jasmine got dumped. Always. She never did the dumping because . . . well, because she was so afraid of being alone that she clung to guys she’d be better off kicking to the curb.

Guys like McIntyre. Like Seth Thomas. Like Everett Giordano.

How many more reasons did she need? Crushes were for suckers.

She opened the small fridge under the counter and pulled out a bottle of seltzer.

Her cousins said she was just picking the wrong guys, but sometimes, Jasmine wasn’t so sure. After all, she was the common factor here.

A new text came through on her phone from a number she didn’t recognize.

 

Unknown: Since I’m leaving earlier today, do you want to meet me in the hotel gym tonight to go over the script for ep 5? —Ash

 

Warmth bubbled over her, bringing heat to her cheeks. Her lips spread in a small smile.

Without a second thought, she wrote back.

 

Jasmine: Absolutely. 7pm?

Ashton: Perfecto. See you there.

 

After adding his number into her phone under the name Ángel Luis, Jasmine switched back to the Primas of Power group text. Her thumb hovered over the empty message box. Then, instead of typing something, she shut the phone off, dropped it into her bag, and went back to set.

ASHTON HAD MADE a terrible mistake.

When he’d suggested Jasmine meet him in the hotel’s fitness center, he figured it would be neutral ground. Less intimate than their dressing rooms or hotel suites, innocuous enough that no one would think anything of two costars reading from their scripts on separate machines. And with the scent of bleach and sweat in the air, not at all sexy.

But when Jasmine walked into the small workout space, Ashton caught sight of her in the mirrored wall and nearly fell off the treadmill.

Jasmine’s face was clear of makeup and she wore her thick brown hair in a high ponytail, but in a hot pink sports bra and black yoga pants, she looked anything but plain. Spandex encased her curves enticingly, and she exuded strength and sensuality. She carried her script and a stainless steel water bottle in one arm, with a towel draped over her shoulder.

She greeted him with a sunny smile and a wave. He just gave her a nod, because he seemed to have swallowed his tongue.

Jasmine set her things in the treadmill’s cup holders while Ashton tried not to stare at her ass. Why was women’s workout gear so tight? His own tank top and shorts were loose. Wouldn’t she have been more comfortable in a poncho or something?

Hell, she’d probably still find a way to make a poncho look sexy.

After setting her treadmill to a brisk walk, Jasmine flipped open the script.

“Let’s start the way Vera does,” she said. “What’s the context?”

“Context?” He had no idea what she was talking about. He was trying to focus on running and not on the way her breasts bounced delightfully as she walked.

“Yeah. You know—what’s happening in the episode?”

“This is the dancing one, right?”

“Right. Carmen tries to get Victor on that competition show where celebrities team up with professional dancers.” She read the notes. “Do you know how to dance salsa?”

“Of course I do,” he scoffed. “Do you?”

“Well, yeah,” she said, laughing. “My mom taught me basic steps for salsa and tinikling.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard of that one,” Ashton admitted.

“It’s a traditional folk dance from the Philippines,” she explained. “It’s like doing double Dutch with long bamboo poles on the ground.”

She demonstrated a few moves right there on the treadmill, rotating 360 degrees as she bounced her feet from the belt to the side rails and back.

Ashton gave a little clap. “I bet you were un petardito jumping rope. A little firecracker.”

“Absolutely. All the other girls made me teach them how to do it too.” She sent him a sidelong glance. “You like running, huh?”

“Clears my mind.” The treadmill’s incline setting changed and he dug in, relishing the burn. “I prefer running outside, but my producers in the past insisted I stay out of the sun.”

When she gave him a curious look, he tapped the skin on his arm. “Can’t be too dark in telenovelas, and I’m already pushing it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Riiiight. Nice to see colorism is still alive and well in the Latinx community.”

“It’s gotten better now, but when I started acting, it was really bad. If I tanned even a little bit, they’d get all bent out of shape.” He shook his head, remembering the not-so-tactful comments he’d gotten before his career had taken off. “You know how hard it is to avoid the sun in Miami?”

“I get you.” Jasmine upped the speed on her machine, her stride confident and energetic. “When I worked in commercials, I auditioned for all the ‘racially ambiguous’ roles. But even if there were a lot of people being hired, there was this whole Highlander ‘there can be only one’ mentality. They’d use me to check off the ‘brown girl’ box on their list and fill the rest of the commercial with white people.”

He made a sound of disgust. “Lazy casting directors.”

“Lazy agent too. This was before I signed with Riley, my current agent. She’s biracial Chinese, so she understands me, but my first one would send me to casting calls for all kinds of ethnicities. In some cases, I’d show up at the audition and be totally mortified, especially since I was still using Rodriguez in my name. I finally put my foot down and refused to go to ‘ethnic’ casting calls unless they specifically listed South East Asian or Latina.”

“What kind of commercials did you do?”

“Oh, lots.” She squinted at the ceiling while she thought about it. “Shampoo, baby diapers, face wash, canned soup. Nothing super embarrassing.”

“My first real role was playing a ranch hand,” Ashton said. “I was twenty-three, living in Mexico, and I told them I could ride horses.”