I sighed. “The truth is, I watch mostly reality stuff. Competitions. Home renovation shows. I like to see things . . .” There was really only one word. “Flipped.”
“Flipped?”
“Changed. Turned inside out. New leaf. Fresh start. I like shows where things—or people—start out one way and end up another. I’m a makeover-TV addict. I admit it.”
“I see.” He leaned a bit closer. “Is there a twelve-step program for this addiction?”
“In Hollywood? Probably. But I wouldn’t have time to attend the sessions. Besides, a little reality TV never hurt anyone.”
“Unless you happen to be the director of a non–reality show and need to stay on top of the competition.” He crossed his arms. “But I’m confused. Didn’t you direct a nighttime drama before you came to Stars Collide?”
“Yeah.”
“Give Me Liberty, right?”
“Yes. I’ll admit, I’ve directed other non–reality shows.”
“You just never watch them.”
I sighed.
He stared at me. “I used to love that show, by the way. Great exposé of life in the military. The stories were incredibly powerful . . . and the actors weren’t shabby either.” He paused. “Weren’t you up for an Emmy for that one too?”
You had to go there.
“Yeah. I didn’t win.”
“But you were nominated. That’s quite an honor.”
“Can we change the subject?”
“Sure.” His expression brightened. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know about nighttime dramas. Or sitcoms. Or cop shows. I’m pretty much hooked on three or four of those.”
“Not me. I grew up in South Central, you know. Every day was a real-life episode of a cop show. I watch TV to escape, which is why I watch reality TV.” After a pause, I added, “Guess I take after my mama when it comes to escapism. She’s been hooked on General Hospital since the seventies. No joke. She can tell you every character’s name, going back thirty-five years.”
“What’s the fascination?”
“I’m clueless. Those daytime dramas seem to drag the tiniest little things out for days. I truly don’t understand the method to their madness.”
“So your mom was inspired by soap operas. What did you watch as a kid?”
“Funny you should ask. I didn’t watch a lot of regular shows even back then. I mean, c’mon. My mother and father weren’t exactly Ozzie and Harriet. The Love Boat wasn’t sailing out of port anytime soon in our neck of the woods. And Beverly Hills, 90210 was just a TV show, not someplace I would ever live.”
“Ah.” He pursed his lips. “So you didn’t watch any sitcoms?”
“Just one. The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.”
“Oh? You’re a Will Smith fan?”
“Well, yeah, that too. But the idea of picking up and moving from the inner city to Bel-Air? It held a lot of appeal for a kid from South Central. I always felt like I’d been born in the wrong world.”
“God knew what he was doing, dropping you into the heart of the city.”
I sighed. “Therein lies the rub. If I admit that God knew what he was doing by bringing me into this world in the projects, then he and I need to have a long discussion about the reasoning behind that decision.”
“So you’re saying God made a mistake?”
Ugh. Did we have to go there? Really?
“God doesn’t make mistakes,” Jason continued.
“Easy to say when you were raised in Newport Beach.” I slapped my hand over my mouth. Had I really just spoken those words out loud? Judging from the look on his face, yes.
“I don’t want to preach. But just consider this one thing: an upbringing in a fancy house doesn’t necessarily make for a happy life. And an upbringing in a home where you faced major struggles doesn’t mean you’ll have restrictions in life. How we end up . . . well, that’s up to us.”
“Right.” I chewed on his words for a minute.
“I’m sorry, Tia. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I guess you’ve figured out I’m pretty good at speaking my mind, whether people want to hear or not.”
“I like a person who speaks his mind.” I rose and walked to the light switch. Before I could turn it on, however, Jason’s hand stopped me. I turned to face him, curious.
“Before you do that . . .” He paused. “There’s something I want to tell you. I started to say it at the commissary before Lenora showed up.”
“Oh?”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. I could almost hear the wheels clicking in his head. “All my adult life, I’ve been told I have a good eye,” he said at last. “You said it downstairs less than an hour ago. That’s what I’m known for. Shooting great angles. Having great focus.” He paused again. “But sometimes my eyes deceive me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes I’m so busy with the narrow focus that I don’t see the bigger picture—what’s going on outside of the set, for instance. And sometimes I’m so distracted with what I see right in front of me that I don’t realize the angle’s wrong.”
I couldn’t figure out where he was going with this. “Are you admitting that you make mistakes?” I asked.
“Oh, I make mistakes every day, but some are bigger than others.” He drew closer. “I’ve been watching you out of the corner of my eye for nearly a year now, Tia, but you’ve deserved my full attention, not just a halfhearted glance.”
Not exactly a line our writers would’ve written, but it made perfect sense to me and had just the right romantic angle. Strangely, I could only manage a one-word response. “O-oh?”
He leaned in and stroked my cheek with his fingertip. “You came tearing in here, ready to take the world by storm. And I’ll admit, you got all of us riled up those first few weeks. You were hard as nails, but about the prettiest thing I’d ever laid eyes on. I called you the Spanish Spitfire.”
“You did?” I couldn’t help the sigh that escaped. “I’m pretty sure everyone hated me back then. Some more than others.” As I stared into his eyes, that butterfly sensation wriggled its way across my stomach.
In that moment, I saw a pain in his eyes I’d never noticed before. Not anger. Something else entirely. “You—you think I hated you?” He slipped his arm around my waist and drew me to him. “You really think that?”
“I—I . . .” Now I wasn’t sure what I thought.
“You’re the toughest woman I’ve ever met, I’ll give you that. Just because you’re good at whipping people into shape doesn’t mean I hate you. I . . . I respect you. I always have, right back to that first day.”
“You did . . . you do?” Suddenly I felt discombobulated.
“Of course. And yeah, we butt heads, but that’s because we’re so much alike. I was used to working with a more placid director. You . . .” He gazed into my eyes, drawing me so close that I felt the air shoot out of me. “You’re different.”
“So they tell me.” I couldn’t help the little laugh that followed.
“They’re right.”
He reached to brush a loose hair out of my face, and a shiver ran through me. What’s happening here?
“If I come across as angry to you, then it’s just misdirected emotions. Trust me, it’s not anger.”
“It—it’s not?” My heart started doing this strange twisting thing as he placed a couple of tender kisses on my forehead. Surely I must be imagining all of this. I gazed up into those beautiful eyes and sighed. “You’re making it hard for me to be mad at you right now.”
“Good. Because frankly, I’m tired of pretending like we’re always mad at each other when we’re really something else altogether.”
“We—we are?” I never had a chance to say anything else because his lips blocked the way. Within seconds I found myself on the receiving end of the world’s most passionate kiss. A spine-tingling, heart-throbbing, weak-in-the-knees kiss that would’ve made our sitcom stars swoon.
Talk about a shocker. In my
thirty years on Planet Earth, I’d never experienced a kiss like this. Directed one—sure. Experienced one—never. As the kiss lingered, I sensed every emotion he’d been holding inside. Every question I’d ever had about Jason Harris was answered. In that moment, a thousand thoughts went through my head, none of which had anything to do with Stars Collide. He had me completely off-kilter, and I was loving every minute of it.
One of Mama’s favorite phrases ran through my mind: A la ocasion la pintan calva. “Strike while the iron is hot.”
The iron was hot, all right. And if I’d had any doubt in my mind, the kiss that followed only added more fuel to the fire. Yes, things were definitely heating up on the Stars Collide set, and I couldn’t help but think the best was yet to come.
I somehow buzzed through work on Friday, trying not to let my happy heart become the subject of too much attention on the set. Since we had to reshoot both of Lenora’s scenes, we ended up calling back all of the cast members involved. Brock and Erin didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they seemed to be inseparable these days. And they were especially delighted to do a retake on the kissing scene. Go figure.
Afterward Rex asked to speak to me. I offered him my director’s chair, and he sat.
“You heard that Brock got an offer to perform on Dancing with the Stars, didn’t you?”
“No.” I gasped. “Is he going to do it?”
“Well, it’s next season’s show, so we’re talking next fall. By then Kat will be back on the set and everything will be back to normal between Jack and Angie.”
I sniggered. “Since when has anything been normal on the Stars Collide set, Rex?”
He laughed. “Okay, well, you know what I mean. When Kat comes back, we can probably spare Brock, though I do want to keep him in the storyline the whole time. I’d be thrilled if he decided to stay on with us for years to come.”
“I wonder if he can dance.”
“I guess we’ll see.” Rex grinned. He paused, and I could tell he had something else on his mind.
“What is it?”
“Well, I didn’t want to tell anyone, but they want Lenora to do the show too.”
“No way.”
“Yes. Apparently they’ve had quite a few senior citizens on the show in recent years, and the crowd has gone crazy for them.”
“Yeah, you should’ve seen the year Cloris Leachman danced,” I said. “And Florence Henderson. It was a lot of fun to watch. Oh, and Priscilla Presley was on the show one year too. She’s in such great shape, though. I couldn’t believe she was really in her sixties. She looks remarkably young. Then again, she was married to the king of rock and roll. I guess that’ll keep you young.”
His eyes narrowed. “You watch Dancing with the Stars, Tia?”
“Oh, well, I . . . doesn’t everyone?”
He laughed. “Well, not me. And just so you know, I haven’t told Lenora. I can’t imagine she would be up to it. But Brock will probably do it. It’ll be great for the show, and probably for his career too.”
“Right.”
“I just wanted to tell you because we’ll need to think ahead.”
“That’s me, always thinking ahead.” I saluted him.
“Oh, honey, are you auditioning for a military movie?” Lenora said from behind me.
“No, I was just—”
“Because if you are, you might want to know that you always salute with your right hand.” She gave me a wink. “Just thought you’d like to know.”
She did a funny little dance across the stage, and I looked at Rex and smiled. “Her dance skills are impeccable. You might want to reconsider.”
“That blessed woman has already caused me to reconsider nearly everything else in my life,” he said. “So why not?” He headed off to join her in the dance. I watched from a distance as they waltzed together around the set. They touched my heart with their tenderness toward one another.
The soundstage cleared, and Jason and I were left alone at last. He drew near and pulled me into his arms. That tingling sensation washed over me again.
“Missed you,” he whispered.
“I was right here.”
“I know. But I still missed you.”
Well, if that didn’t make a girl feel good, I didn’t know what would.
He leaned in to give me a kiss I wouldn’t soon forget. I got so wrapped up in the moment that I almost forgot we still had writers down the hall. Only when Athena cleared her throat did I catch on to the fact that we weren’t alone.
I felt heat rush to my cheeks, and I took a giant step back from Jason, who had that deer-caught-in-the-headlights look on his face.
“I, um, well, I guess I’ll just go on back to my office.” Athena laid the script on my chair. “You can look at this, um, later.”
She left, and Jason and I both dissolved in laughter.
“Guess our secret’s out.” He wiggled his brows. “I, for one, am glad.”
“Me too.” I gave him a little kiss on the nose.
“Good. Now that that’s behind us, let’s talk about food.”
“Food?” I said. “What about it?”
“I need some. We skipped lunch.”
“Oh, I was actually headed to my mother’s place. It’s kind of a Friday night tradition for our family. She’s cooking . . .” I let my words drift off. Mama was doing her usual Friday night thing. Tamales. “Traditional Mexican fare.”
“Homemade Mexican food?” I could practically see him drooling.
“You . . . you want to come?”
He nodded and reached for my hand. “Yes, but let’s get something straight.”
“O-okay.”
“I’m not just coming for the food. I want to meet your parents. Your whole family, actually. That okay?”
My heart began that strange twisting sensation again, and I found myself caught up in his eyes. I wanted to respond but couldn’t think of anything to say. He’d met my sister and survived. Surely we could get past meeting the rest of the family. I hoped.
“Anything I need to know before I meet your parents?” he asked as we headed out to the parking lot.
“Well, I told you they separated, and now they’re back together.”
“Right. What else?”
“My mother has a Chihuahua.”
“One of those tiny little dogs that looks like a rat?”
“Please don’t say that in her presence. She got him as a gift years ago from my father.”
When he came home after several weeks of carousing with another woman, but I’ll skip that part for now.
“Anyway, she’s in love with that little dog. It’s the most annoying canine you’ll ever meet—barks like a maniac when people come in the door and doesn’t stop until you’ve been there awhile. I always like to tell people before they get to the house.”
“Okay, what else?”
“Mama loves to be complimented on her cooking.” I laughed. “Funny, I know. The mother can cook, but the daughter can’t.”
“Hey, I thought your chicken cacciatore was pretty good.”
“Ha. Like I made that myself.”
“You did. With a little help from a friend.” He kissed me again, and I was swept away.
Jason offered to drive, so I left my car on the lot. He opened the door for me—a true gentleman—and I climbed into the passenger seat.
We arrived at Mama’s house at six, and I half expected Jason to turn and hightail it back to Newport Beach as soon as he got a look at the neighborhood. But he kept his cool, even leaving his BMW parked at the curb without comment.
“So, who comes to dinner on Friday nights?” he asked as he opened the car door for me.
“Oh, everyone. All of my brothers and my sister. It’s a tradition. Mama’s been cooking all day, I can assure you. She lives for Fridays.”
“And you’re sure she won’t mind that I’m here?”
“Oh no. She loves it when we bring people over. My brother Carlos will be here with his wife and kids. A
nd Humberto—he’s my middle brother—has a girlfriend who comes about half the time. I’m sure Beni’s invited Julio. He’s, well . . .” I decided to stop right there. No point in ruining a perfectly good Friday night.
“And your parents?” Jason looked worried. “Are they going to welcome me with open arms?”
“See for yourself.” I pointed to my mother, who stood in the doorway of the house, a broad smile on her face.
“Who is this, Tia-mia?” She clasped her hands together at her chest. “A handsome stranger from Hollywood? A big star?”
“I’m no star, trust me, Mrs. Morales.” Jason took several steps in Mama’s direction. “Just a cameraman. Part of the tech crew.”
Mama’s dog began to yap and lunged forward to tug on Jason’s pants leg. He managed to wriggle free.
“Well, if you’re part of the tech crew, then you’re a key player. That show couldn’t go on without you, now could it?” Mama scooped up the ornery pup and turned to give me a “he’s good-looking, Tia!” glance. She continued chattering, slipping into Spanish from time to time.
Jason didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he managed to hold up his end of the conversation even when her English failed.
We made our way inside, and I introduced Jason to Humberto and his girlfriend, Kate. I started to ask him how things were going at my house but decided to skip it. That was a conversation for another day. Besides, I couldn’t get past the fact that I suddenly felt like sneezing again. Odd.
Benita rushed through the room, pausing long enough to give Jason a curious glance, then headed off to the bathroom claiming she needed to touch up her eyeliner.
By five thirty, Carlos and Maria had arrived with their three kids. Gabe joined us minutes later. Mama brought a bowl of salsa into the living room, and we all dove in, devouring the chips she placed alongside the bowl.
“Jason, you try it.” Mama pushed the bowl in his direction.
He stuck in a chip—homemade, of course—and his eyes glazed over as he bit into it. “This salsa . . .” He shook his head and pointed to the bowl.
“Too spicy?” Mama’s brow wrinkled.
“No, not at all.”