Sugar and Spice (The Glitter and Sparkle Series Book 3)

by Shari L. Tapscott

  I haven’t learned the other competitors’ names yet, but there are three more teams. As I guessed, excluding Max, Sadie and I are the youngest team in the bake-off. From the looks I’ve been getting, I know more than a few whispers are being exchanged about us. I can guess what they’re saying too. They think we made it on because of Mason, because of strings he pulled after what happened at our audition at the Harbinger.

  But they didn’t taste our cookies. We perfected them, and they won us this spot. Mason had nothing to do with it.

  What if he did?

  I scowl at the thought and set my napkin aside, finally admitting defeat. There’s no way I can eat another bite, no matter how much I might want to.

  Once the dishes are cleared, Tammy steps to the front of the room, mic in hand. She wastes no time getting down to business. After a few brief words of welcome, she jumps right in, occasionally glancing at a list in her hand to make sure she covers everything.

  There’s a total of eight episodes, meaning two teams will be dismissed in two of them. The show is aired on an approximate four-hour delay to give the crew a chance to edit out filming blunders or the occasional slipped curse word. The viewers get one-third of the vote, and they’ll be judging us on presentation.

  “The more the camera loves you, the better chance you have to win,” Tammy reminds us. Basically, the producer is saying they want a show worth watching, so don’t be a wallflower.

  “Interviews will be held in the mornings, immediately after you finish a competition, and then again in the afternoons. As the schedule states, we will not be filming on Wednesdays or the weekend. You may use that time at your leisure. The final episode and the winner announcement will air next Friday.”

  I shift in my seat, surprised I’m nervous. I should have known it would happen—I’m a competitive person by nature. There’s no way I could enter this and not want to win.

  “On a final note, it’s been brought to our attention that we need to set a few ground rules between the competitors and the judges—”

  Every single eye in the room turns on me. My attention is firmly on Tammy, but I can feel their gazes, and my palms grow sweaty. It’s not a good feeling.

  “Interaction will be kept to a minimum, and absolutely no fraternizing will be tolerated.”

  Chrissy, one of the bottle-blonds from New York, raises her hand like it’s her first day of kindergarten. “Excuse me, Madam Producer?”

  Madame Producer?

  “What if fraternizing has already occurred?” she glances at me, giving me an apologetic little head tilt that’s anything but.

  Tammy straightens her shoulders and narrows her eyes. “I assure you, every team in this room is here due to their baking skills, and not because the media glommed onto a small incident that occurred during the audition process.”

  Chrissy, who for some reason still has her fool hand in the hair, falters and slowly lowers her arm, looking properly chastised.

  Tammy dismisses her and goes over a few more trivial details that are already in the information packet we all received when we arrived. When everyone finally goes back to minding their own business, I flick my eyes toward Mason. As if feeling my gaze, he glances my way. He doesn’t acknowledge me, doesn’t so much as smile, and then he moves his attention back to Tammy.

  His reaction doesn’t offend me, not after his words in the hall. Besides, I don’t want Mason. It was one thing to react to him when his hands were pressed to my sides and his words grazed my ear, but developing an actual crush on the musician would be insane.

  Mason’s here to do his job, and I’m here to win. It’s as simple as that.

  Tammy dismisses us, and Sadie and I filter out of the room. It’s late, after ten, and we have to be up and ready for team interviews by nine. We part in the upstairs hall, and I pull out my card key.

  Hiding a tiny smile, I watch from the corner of my eye as Sadie jerks the handle, trying to open the fussy door.

  Yes, I gave her that room. Do I feel bad about it? No, I do not.

  I change into a soft pair of sleep shorts and a tank top, and just as I’m brushing my hair, a knock sounds at my door. My chest clenches, and my pulse jumps. For one brief moment, I wonder if it’s Mason. Then I realize that’s ridiculous. Of course it’s not Mason.

  But what if it is?

  Another knock sounds, and I hurry forward, skidding across the polished wooden floor in my fuzzy pink tube socks. I flip the lock at the top, take a deep breath to calm my nerves, remind myself that Mason’s eye candy and nothing more, and pull the handle.

  Then my shoulders sag.

  Sadie frowns. “You should have probably checked to see who it was first.”

  I roll my eyes. “What do you want?”

  She raises a brow, which is a caramel blond—the exact color of precisely twenty-five percent of her hair. Probably the natural part. “Someone slid a note under my door. Since my name isn’t Harper, I assumed it was for you.”

  My confused heart does that weird skitter thing again, acting up just after it calmed down from the disappointment.

  Sadie offers the note, and I snatch it from her hand. It’s probably nothing more than another itinerary. Tammy loves them, and she seems to think we’re incapable of keeping track of the fifty she’s given us.

  I suck in a breath as I scan the short sentence.

  “What does it say?” Sadie demands, her voice bubbly as she presses in close to read the note.

  Resisting the urge to put my palm on her forehead and push her away, I turn from her. “Nothing.”

  “Come on—let me see.” Like one of those little rat dogs celebutantes carry around, she squirms her way back, refusing to take a hint. I give in and flick the note to her before she crawls up my arm.

  Her eyes go wide as she reads it out loud, “Second floor, suite one. Bring a swimsuit and a poster.”

  She looks back at me. “You don’t think this is from” —she leans forward and dramatically lowers her voice— “Mason?”

  I shake my head and cross my arms. “No, it was definitely Eugene. He and I had a moment at the dessert table.”

  Sadie stares at me for several seconds before she blinks, fluttering her long eyelashes. “Eugene? Isn’t that the—”

  “Grandpa?” I interrupt, enjoying the look of revulsion on her face. “I like older men. Do you have a problem with that?”

  It takes her three whole seconds to realize I’m not serious, and then she shakes her head like I’m insane. “You can’t go.”

  “Is that right? Are you my chaperone now?”

  She bites her bottom lip, looking as if she’s worried I’m going to slap her if she actually spits out the words she means to say.

  I narrow my eyes. “What?”

  “Brandon said I should watch out for you, make sure you don’t get tangled up with Mason.”

  “Excuse me?” My blood’s already warming with irritation. “He said what?”

  She gulps and takes a not-so-subtle step back. “He’s worried about you.”

  “Is he?”

  Sadie nods.

  “Have you talked to him tonight?” I demand.

  Shaking her head, she edges toward her room. “No, I was about to call, but then I found your note.”

  “Well, be sure to let him know where I went. Give him a full update.” I turn back to my room and rummage through my things, glad Riley tossed a swimsuit into my duffel bag while I was packing.

  I had no intention of meeting Mason when I first read the note, but now…

  Now I have no choice.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After looking down the hall to ensure no one is going to catch me, I knock on the door to the suite. With my swimsuit clenched in my palm, I set my hands on my hips and wait.

  Several seconds later, the door swings open, and there stands Mason, handsome as ever in a pair of jeans and a thermal long-sleeve. A few of the shirt’s top buttons are undone, and my eyes drift to the tanned V of skin
just below his neck.

  Mason scans my outfit. I’m still wearing shorts and a tank top, but I was smart enough to throw on a bra and long sweater cardigan.

  Just the sight of him is enough to steal my breath, but my lingering irritation with Brandon curbs my usual reaction.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” Mason crosses his ankles and leans a shoulder against the door frame. He looks completely at ease—as if he’s not worried someone’s going to spot us “fraternizing” and run to Tammy to rat us out.

  I shrug.

  “Come on in.” He steps away from the door, jerking his chin inward.

  Before I step inside, I hold up my hand, which happens to contain my swimsuit. “Just for the record, I will not be wearing this tonight.” His eyebrows shoot up, and my cheeks warm when I realize how he took my words. Before he can say something that will get him slapped, I amend my words. “You know what I mean. I’m not changing at all.”

  A lazy grin spreads across his face, and his gray eyes spark with amusement. “Fine by me, but how will you explain your wet clothes when you’re walking back to your room?”

  I purse my lips to keep from laughing. Darn it, he’s likable. “I can leave…”

  “No hot tub.” Mason holds up his hands in surrender. “I understand. Now come in before we both get kicked off the show.”

  And I want to—and not just because it would serve Brandon right, which is what I keep telling myself. The problem is, nice girls don’t accept invitations into guys’ hotel rooms.

  As if reading the hesitation in my expression, Mason’s smile softens. “What if I promise to keep my hands to myself?”

  Don’t say that, a little voice in the back of my head groans. “And I should trust your promise?”

  Even if he’s not what I expected, he’s still a celebrity. I have no doubt he’s used to getting everything he demands.

  “What if I swear on my favorite guitar?”

  I scoff, two seconds from turning on my heel and marching back to my room, where I belong.

  “Get in here,” he says with an exasperated laugh, wrapping a warm hand around my shoulder and tugging me inside. Sadly, he unhands me the moment the door shuts behind us. He takes a step back, studying me as he crosses his arms. “The musician angle isn’t going to work on you, is it?”

  “Afraid not.”

  He cocks his head to the side, and a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “In fact, it almost appears as if you’re offended by my occupation.”

  And I am. The fact that I find him charming and handsome rankles me in the worst way. I am not Riley. I didn’t sigh over his albums; I didn’t hang his posters in my room. But I can’t deny the sight of him puts butterflies in my stomach, even if it’s obnoxious.

  Instead of answering, I look around. The room’s a little small for a suite, to be honest. But he does have his own gas-burning fireplace and what appears to be a balcony that probably contains the aforementioned hot tub. A couch and two chairs face each other in the main living space, along with a television and a small kitchenette. An open door leads to the right, giving me a glimpse of a modest bedroom.

  “I thought it would be…” I hold up my hand, motioning at the room.

  “More?”

  I nod.

  He looks around. “I kind of like it. It’s all quaint and cozy, you know?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You do realize it’s still twice the size of a regular room. And it has a fireplace…and a hot tub.”

  A knowing smile tugs on his lips. “Change your mind about that, have you?”

  “Nope.”

  Mason laughs like he already knew my answer. “You want to order room service? I can be a gentleman and make you hide in the bathroom when they bring it up.”

  “How are you hungry?” I ask, finally laughing because I can’t help myself. “We just left a banquet not thirty minutes ago.”

  “How often do you think we’ll have Louis Brenard’s staff at our beck and call?”

  When he puts it that way…

  “Fine. I want something chocolate.”

  And that’s how I end up hiding in Mason Knight’s hotel bathroom. Most girls would use this rare opportunity to snoop about, sniff his soap, post a picture on social media, proudly tagging it for all to see. You know:

  #MasonKnightForever

  #DiedAndGoneToHeaven

  #IWantToSmellLikeMason

  Thankfully, I’m not that girl. Instead, I sit on the counter and stare at the white shower curtain, waiting for Mason to collect me.

  What kind of shampoo does he use, anyway? I bet it’s something ridiculously expensive. Something that costs fifty dollars an ounce and is made from extracts expelled from rare Amazonian berries. And just like that, curiosity gets the best of me. I hop down from my perch, glance at the door, and peer around the shower curtain.

  There is precisely one bottle on the ledge—a three-in-one common grocery store product that claims to be shampoo, conditioner, and body wash all in one. I frown at the bottle, stumped.

  That doesn’t seem right at all.

  But what does it smell like?

  Good grief. When did I sink to this level?

  Quickly, before I can change my mind, I reach for the bottle and snap open the top.

  Just as I take a tentative sniff, Mason says from behind me, “I can honestly say I didn’t expect to find you half in my shower.”

  I let out an embarrassed yip, lose my footing, and tumble headfirst toward the tiled wall. Before I collide, Mason snakes his arm out, catching me around the waist. The move inadvertently yanks me to his chest and puts me in a position that thousands of girls would climb over police barricades to find themselves in.

  We stand here for several seconds, neither of us speaking as I silently curse myself.

  Really, Harper? You had to smell his shampoo?

  Slowly, when he’s sure I won’t tumble forward, he releases me. I turn, hoping to act nonchalant about the whole thing.

  “Let’s be honest. That was weird, wasn’t it?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  “Happens all the time. You’d be surprised how many girls I’ve caught smelling my shower products.”

  I stare at him for several moments, narrowing my eyes. “Really?”

  “No.” He grins. “Believe it or not, I don’t invite too many girls up to my room.”

  “Emphasis on ‘not too many.’”

  Mason backs to the counter, crossing his arms as he effortlessly rests against the marble. “You’re a bit cynical, aren’t you?”

  The bathroom’s too small to carry on a conversation. Mason’s right there, far too close, and it’s disconcerting. I walk to the main room, watching him from the corner of my eye as I go. He chuckles under his breath and follows me out.

  “How much food did you order?” I gape at the spread, forgetting about the embarrassing shampoo incident. There are at least ten tiny plates, all filled with various varieties of chocolate.

  There’s some sort of dark chocolate flourless cake and a creamy chocolate mousse garnished with a piping of whipped cream, bitter chocolate shavings, and three perfectly plump raspberries. A miniature truffle sits next to a generous square of the world’s most delicious-looking tiramisu and chocolate, ganache-filled macarons. And that’s not all, but my brain is on overload.

  So much chocolate.

  “We can’t possibly eat all this,” I say, still full from the banquet.

  Mason tilts his head as he studies the dessert platter. I’ve noticed he does that a lot—studies things. He’s not at all what I expected, and I’m not sure what to think about that.

  “Then let’s take a taste of each and see what we like the best.”

  His turns to me, his expression easy yet expectant, and I finally give in. “Fine, but I have to leave in an hour or I’ll be a mess tomorrow.”

  His answering grin is swift, and it’s wide enough, his dimples shadow his cheeks. It strikes me again how much older he looks tha
n he did on Riley’s walls. No—not just older. More mature. Solid and chiseled and hardened.

  “An hour it is,” he says as he hands me a fork.

  ***

  I yawn into the back of my hand, but I try to hide it from the camera crew. They’re wandering about, followed by people with lights and extra speakers, filming us as we wait to enter the kitchen for our first competition.

  The room is intense, and we’re all dealing with our nerves in different ways. There are the quiet, focused types like Quinn and her mother, Sarah. Then there are the loud people like Chicago Scott and Charlie from Washington DC, who have been heckling each other all day. Charlie’s wife shakes her head, half-embarrassed by her husband’s behavior.

  Like Charlie, Lindsay’s in her thirties, but she’s as soft-spoken as Charlie is loud. She wears her black hair in an elaborate braid that falls down her back. Her red holiday apron coordinates with her white, sleeveless blouse, making her look festive, which the producers love.

  Earlier, we spent a few hours in the kitchen, getting to know our work area and the ingredient carts. There are swags of greenery and twinkle lights at every station, and various-sized Christmas trees are scattered around the perimeter.

  We have three home economists—people whose job is to stock ingredients and show us where everything is. A woman by the name of Sandra walked Sadie and me through everything, showing us where all our tools are and demonstrating how to work things like stove tops and ovens. (Not that we couldn’t work an oven, of course. But she still went over it.)

  Before arriving, we filled out request forms, stating what kinds of ingredients we prefer to use so they were sure to have them on hand. There’s so much more that goes into this than it looks like on television.

  I yawn again, and this time Sadie catches me. “What time did you get back to your room?”

  Rolling my head, trying to stretch my neck and wake up, I grimace. “Two-thirty.”

  “In the morning?” she hisses, taken aback.