shirt, cargo shorts, and leather sandals, plus a Yankees hat and a pair of sunglasses he removed once they were inside. Jasmine wore yoga pants, a plain white T-shirt, and sneakers, with her hair in a messy bun. She imagined they looked like a good-looking upper-class Latinx couple, shopping for a dinner they’d cook together in their Upper East Side apartment. He was a doctor maybe, and she . . . a Pilates instructor?
Whoa, wait a second. Why couldn’t she be the doctor? And Ashton a . . . personal trainer, maybe. It was easy—and delightful—to picture him demonstrating proper exercise form.
As they strolled up and down the aisles, Jasmine tried to stop sneaking appreciative glances at him and imagining them as different characters. He was here to help her out—nothing more. Well, maybe to buy some peanut butter.
But he was just so handsome, even in his Rich Latino Dad disguise.
She shouldn’t have gone to meet him at the gym. And she definitely shouldn’t have worn her best sports bra, the one that gave lift and separation instead of uni-boob. She knew it wasn’t playing fair, but Ashton’s reaction had been worth it.
On a personal level. On a professional level, she was annoyed with herself. She wasn’t supposed to be making herself attractive for him.
But then, there’d been nothing attractive about her reaction to seeing McIntyre on TV. She’d been scared to return to the Hutton Court’s fitness room, in case she’d broken it. And when she thought about how much she’d opened up to Ashton, she got a flush of embarrassment. He was a good listener, easy to talk to. So different from the character he played—Ashton was quieter and far more reserved than Victor—but there must have been some part of him that connected with Victor, because he was able to turn the sexy on like a light switch.
And he had looked so freaking hot, running hard in those clingy shorts, with his bare, muscled arms pumping. Thanks to their scenes as Carmen and Victor, she’d known he was hiding some serious muscles under his costumes, but seeing him revealed had been worth the wait.
“¿Y esto?” Ashton held up a box of saltines.
Jasmine sighed and stopped eyeing Ashton’s ass. “Galletas. I told you, I already know words for food.”
He shook the box at her and said in a patient tone, “Usa la palabra en una oración completa.”
A complete sentence. Fine. “Um . . . me gusta comer galletas con . . . queso?”
He replaced the crackers on the shelf. “Adequate, but maybe come up with a different sentence starter than ‘I like.’ So far you’ve said you like bread, wine, and now crackers with cheese.”
“I do like bread, wine, and crackers with cheese,” she grumbled, then took the box back off the shelf and put it in her basket. “Speaking of, let’s go get some cheese.”
“En español,” he reminded her in a singsong voice.
She rolled her eyes, but grinned. “Vamos a buscar el queso. Happy?”
“Claro que sí.” From under the brim of his fitted cap, he sent her a warm smile that made her toes curl in her Adidas.
On the way to the dairy section, “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” came on over the grocery store’s speakers.
“Hold up. I love this song.” Jasmine stopped in the middle of the aisle and did a few dance moves as she sang along softly with Whitney Houston.
Ashton raised his eyebrows and repeated the words in Spanish, but he turned it into a question. “¿Quieres bailar con alguien?”
She sent him a cheeky grin and said, “Sí,” as if he’d actually meant to ask her to dance with him.
To her surprise, he inclined his head and said, “Bueno.” Before she knew what was happening, he took her hand, spinning her under his arm before twirling her out, then back in toward his body, where he caught her in a dance hold.
Jasmine spun to a stop, breathing hard from surprise and from being so close to him. His body was warm and hard, and he smelled delicious. His hand held hers in a solid grip, different from the way he’d gently stroked her fingers while comforting her at the gym. She wanted to keep dancing. Or undress him with her teeth. Either one would be fine.
But they were in a grocery store, so instead, she changed the subject. “You have your dance scene tomorrow, right?”
“Sí.”
“Are you nervous?” At his pointed look, she repeated the question in Spanish. “¿Estás nervioso?”