A knock sounded on the door. “Ashton? Are you in there?”

Uh-oh. Yadiel was the reason Ashton kept his private life locked away. He wanted his son to have as normal an upbringing as possible, even if it meant spending time apart. Ashton had experienced some alarming moments with fans early in his career—he’d never forget the terror of hearing glass breaking in his son’s nursery—so he did everything in his power to keep Yadiel safe, protected, and secret.

Ashton blew a kiss into the phone and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Ciao, mi amor.”

“Bye, Papi.”

Disconnecting the call, Ashton called, “Pase,” then repeated it in English, just in case. “Come in.”

Marquita Arroyo, the showrunner and a fellow Boricua, stuck her head inside. She was tall, with fair skin, a mass of spiraling curls, and a big smile. “Hey there. We have some people who want to meet you before the table read begins.”

Ashton took a final swig of coffee, then set it aside. Showtime.

JASMINE STOOD IN the empty ladies’ restroom in her underwear, trying to dry her bra under the hand dryer while she was still wearing it, when someone knocked on the outer door and called out, “Hello? I have your clothes.”

“In here!” Jasmine scurried back into the stall and stuck her head out. Penny rushed in and handed her a plastic “I Heart New York” bag with folded items inside.

“I hope these work,” Penny said, sounding uncertain. “There weren’t a whole lot of options, and you’d be surprised how much tourist wear costs.”

Jasmine clutched the bag to her chest and eased back into the stall. “I’m sure they’re fine. Thank you so much!”

Jasmine tore into the bag—and froze. Shit, maybe she should have been more specific about what kind of outfit.

The nylon running shorts were black, at least, and devoid of any logo. They were shorter than she would have liked, but not the shortest thing she’d ever worn in a professional setting. She’d make them work.

The T-shirt, on the other hand . . .

Jasmine unfolded it and stared. It was fuchsia with black trim, a hood, and NYC emblazoned across the front in sketchy white block letters. Tacky, yes, but that was to be expected when buying clothes in a souvenir shop. More worryingly, however, was that it was very, very small.

Jasmine took a closer look at the tags and sighed. It was a size medium . . . for a child. Both articles of clothing had clearance tags, and still came out to thirty-three and change. Apparently thirty-four dollars hardly got you anything these days.

She stuck her head out of the stall, but Penny was long gone. Probably scared Jasmine would bite her head off or ask her to switch clothes. Which, in hindsight, might have been a better idea. Too late now.

She glanced at her blouse, which was currently soaked and still bore faint brown stains, and then her watch. She was out of time.

Jasmine wrestled herself into the shirt, which fit—just barely—like a crop top. The material was thick but stretchy. It was especially tight in the shoulders, but it covered her boobs more than a wet white silk blouse would. She shoved her wet clothes into the plastic bag and exited the stall, then caught sight of herself in the bathroom’s full-length mirror.

Between the child-sized shirt, the gym shorts, the black heels, and her sparkly gold jewelry, she was certainly rocking some kind of look, albeit not one that said Leading Lady. More like Sporty Spice on a hot date. Maybe coffee-splattered wouldn’t have been so bad, but she didn’t have time to dry everything with the bathroom’s weak-ass hand dryer.

Then she remembered her grandmother’s adage: If you’re not wearing lipstick and earrings, you might as well be naked.

After freshening up her dark magenta lipstick, Jasmine snapped a photo of her reflection, then sent it to Ava and Michelle in their Primas of Power group text. Time to call in the hype squad.

Ava answered first.

 

Ava: Um, what are you wearing?

 

Michelle’s reply came a second later.

 

Michelle: Hawt.

Jasmine: I had a run in with an iced coffee.

Quick, tell me I’m still pretty.

 

Michelle replied with an animated GIF of Natalie Wood in West Side Story, twirling and saying, “I feel pretty!”

Ava added one of Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl saying, “Hello, gorgeous.”

It would have to do. Jasmine tossed her hair, squared her shoulders, and cocked a hand on her hip. “Make jefa moves, remember?” she told her reflection.

Inside, she didn’t believe that for a second, but she was a good enough actress that her embarrassment didn’t show on her face.

Then she exited the bathroom and strutted into that table read like she was on a motherfucking runway.

Chapter 4

Between the chat with Yadiel and a series of increasingly positive interactions with the showrunner, the first assistant director, and the director for episode one, Ashton’s confidence came roaring back. After working in TV for more than fifteen years, the bustle felt like home, more so than his apartment in Miami or his suite at the Hutton Court did. Sure, there was a lot riding on this role, but he could do this. He was one of the best in his industry—no, not one of the best, the best—and he was here to show American audiences—plus the casting agents and producers—what he could do. No sweat.

He followed Marquita to the conference room where the table read would be held. Tons of people milled about in the hallway, including ScreenFlix execs, producers, writers, and a few of the actors Ashton recalled from the show notes. It had been a long time since he’d joined a new cast where he didn’t know a single person. All he wanted to do was slip into the room and find his seat, but he introduced himself to Peter Calabasas, a longtime TV actor who’d play Carmen’s father. Peter, a barrel-chested Afro-Latinx man with a dark beard, was easy to talk to, and they quickly struck up a lively conversation about baseball.

Then Jasmine strolled in and Ashton did a double take.

She was still gorgeous and mouth-wateringly sexy, but . . . what the hell was she wearing?

She’d gotten a new outfit from somewhere, and while her hair and makeup were still flawless, she looked like a fitness model who’d wandered into the wrong room, not the star of a show about a fierce PR exec.

Guilt washed over Ashton. How would he feel if he had to show up on his first day in gym shorts? Sure, some actors dressed casually for table reads. Three of the others were wearing jeans. But being the title character carried a sense of leadership. It wasn’t uncommon to make more of an effort at the beginning, to put on professional airs, at least before the fourteen-hour work days had everyone battling exhaustion. Ashton wasn’t the title character, but as one of the leads and the show’s love interest, he’d dressed up in a crisp blue button-down shirt and black slacks with Italian leather loafers.

Jasmine, as he’d seen her that morning, had shown up looking her very best. Even covered in coffee, it was clear her outfit had been stylish and sophisticated. She’d even said as much, but he’d been so mortified, it had gone right over his head. Because of his mistake, she now looked like she was on her way to the gym . . . in high heels.

He felt like an ass all over again. Had he really only offered her his coffee and a half-hearted attempt to pay for her dry cleaning? What the hell was wrong with him? She was never going to forgive him, and he couldn’t blame her.