past her, toward the end of the aisle. “No, I . . .”
When he trailed off, Jasmine followed his gaze. By the freezer section, a woman wearing an apron with the store’s name on it looked down at her phone screen, but she held it at an awkward angle, almost as if . . .
As if she were taking their picture.
Jasmine’s stomach dropped to her feet. This was truly the worst part of fame—the loss of privacy, of anonymity. She felt raw, exposed, and . . . bitter. She couldn’t even act silly in an overpriced supermarket without worrying about someone watching her.
Ashton’s jaw tightened. He released Jasmine abruptly and slipped his sunglasses back on. “We should be more careful.” Jasmine nodded. “You’re right.”
Leading Ladies only end up on magazine covers with good reason.
Galletas con queso and “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” were not good reasons.
“Let’s go.” Ashton turned his back to the woman and left the aisle in the opposite direction. They paid for their items in silence and exited the store.
Back at the hotel, they didn’t speak much except to say good night, and Jasmine returned to her room alone. In the suite’s tiny kitchen, she put away her items—she’d gotten the crackers, but no cheese to go with them—and wondered what might have happened if the woman with the phone hadn’t interrupted them.
JASMINE’S NERVES ABOUT the grocery store didn’t last. As she was getting ready for bed, she received an email alerting her to some changes. Everyone had been so happy with how she and Ashton were performing together that they’d written her into the dance scenes.
She’d rushed through her moisturizing routine—every time she was tempted to skip a step, she heard her grandmother’s voice in her head warning her about wrinkles—and flung herself into bed with her tablet. She opened the script file and flipped through at warp speed.
Some actors got better with reading and memorizing lines as they progressed. Some always struggled with it. Jasmine was in the third camp, and it was what had made her excellent at soaps—she could speed-read like nobody’s business, and had an excellent memory for things like song lyrics, poems, and, most importantly, scripts.
She found the scene where Victor was supposed to practice for his meeting with the producers. She and Ashton had already rehearsed it, with Jasmine reading the part of the producers. Originally, the intention was to show Victor on his own, without Carmen. But now . . . Jasmine kept skimming. In the updated version, Victor insisted Carmen be his dance partner for the rehearsal and audition.
Jasmine checked the call sheet. Apparently production was bringing in two pro dancers to help them practice for the scenes. Which meant . . .
She was going to get to dance with Ashton.
Since she was alone, Jasmine punched her fist into the air and yelled, “Yes!”
Then she gathered the tablet to her chest and let herself picture it. The few steps they’d danced together in the grocery store had left her craving more. His body was so strong and steady, and as she’d observed from watching him run on the treadmill, he moved with fluid grace. The thought of dancing in his arms, generating heat for the camera, and giving Carmen the chance to really let loose thrilled her. She couldn’t wait.
In the midst of fantasizing, Jasmine also experienced a spark of pride for the show’s writers. The change was very much in character for Victor, especially after he’d insisted Carmen be his red-carpet date in the second episode, and it allowed for more up close and personal on-screen interaction between Carmen and Victor, which the viewers would love.
The only downside was that Jasmine now had new lines to learn, and a dance routine. But she was excited. She went to sleep that night with a smile on her face.
When she arrived at the dance studio the next day, worry gnawed at her. Would Ashton pull away from her again after possibly being photographed in the grocery store? But her fear was surpassed by her anticipation at getting to dance with him. She swung by craft services for a protein bar and coffee, then hurried inside the real dance studio where they would rehearse.
A PA directed her to a spacious room, complete with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a ballet barre, sound system, and shiny light wood floor. Narrow windows overlooked Forty-Fifth Street.
Jess and Nik, the dancers who’d been hired to choreograph Carmen and Victor’s salsa, were beautiful, professional, and—Jasmine could tell just