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

by Shari L. Tapscott

  “Probably not. We have to be there by nine for the stage rehearsal.” He rubs his thumb over mine. “But I have a few surprises for you tomorrow—ones I think you’ll like. Yvonne will bring you backstage after the show.”

  It takes a moment for his last words to process. “Backstage? Where is the show?”

  He suppresses a grin. “Radio City Music Hall.”

  Gaping at him, I whisper, “I actually get to go backstage at the Radio City Music Hall?”

  “You sure do.”

  “And I can’t tell a soul because I’ll get kicked off the bake-off for ‘fraternizing’ with the host,” I say, groaning.

  “Only this time.”

  He looks like he’s about to leave. Slowly, testing in the sweetest way, he leans close and brushes a kiss against my cheek.

  I blink at Mason, overwhelmed by how right it feels. Before I can overthink my actions, I reach for him. Immediately, he cups the back of my neck, gently pulling me close. My eyes are locked on his, and then they flutter closed. The smell of pool water clings to him, and his hair is still wet.

  His lips graze mine, barely touching, and my hands find his sides. I run my palms along the smooth fabric of his T-shirt, feeling his muscular frame underneath.

  Just when I worry he’s going to pull back, maybe change his mind, his lips meet mine in the softest kiss imaginable.

  It’s short, only a few seconds, but entirely perfect.

  Mason pulls back enough to see my eyes, and his fingers brush the skin at the nape of my neck. “Sweet dreams, Harper.”

  And then he’s gone, and I’m left battling emotions that are at war with each other. I’m blissfully breathless, a touch giddy, and very, very anxious about the well-being of my heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  An usher escorts me to my seat. I thank him and shimmy past the few people who have arrived earlier than me.

  I’m smack dab in the middle of the third row in the most gorgeous dress I’ve ever worn. I officially want Yvonne to choose my wardrobe from now on. She has me in a tasteful one-shoulder, long-sleeve black lace that ends just above my knees. I have a sparkly, beaded black clutch and sky-high, black satin heels that look tasteful instead of scandalous (well, maybe a touch scandalous).

  As a surprise, Mason left me a snowflake pendant necklace—to commemorate the night, he said in his note. I’m ninety-nine perfect certain those are real diamonds sparkling at my neck.

  I feel more than a little guilty about accepting it, but I fell in love with it instantly, and the only way anyone is taking it from me is if they pry it from my cold, dead hands.

  My phone vibrates with a silent text. I’ve been talking to Riley all day. She wants a play-by-play rundown of everything. I sent her pictures of my hotel room, the spa I spent my day in, and the coffee and croissants that room service delivered promptly at nine-thirty this morning. She sent back a dozen exclamation points when I took a picture of my outfit.

  I have not told her about the kiss. That’s mine, and mine alone. It was the most beautiful moment of my life. I want to protect it, keep it close, lock it away so the world can’t get their clutches on it and tear it apart.

  Lauren says her family is at your house, waiting to see if they can catch a glimpse of you in the audience, Riley texts.

  The Christmas Special is airing live, but there’s no way anyone will see me in this crowd.

  Riley texts again, When do you get to go backstage?

  I answer, Yvonne is going to come and get me when the show is over.

  Shortly after the theater fills, the room goes dark, effectively ending the excited chatter in the audience. I shove my silenced phone in my clutch and settle back in my seat.

  Just like the viewers at home, we view a televised lead-in on a huge floating screen at the back of the hall. Country superstar Granger Merrick is the host this year, and he appears on the screen, crooning Holly Jolly Christmas at various iconic New York locations.

  At the very end, he shows up on the stage. The audience cheers as he finishes the song, and he introduces his first guest.

  I find my smile growing with each and every performance. The stage is decked with fake snow, Christmas decorations, and the occasional flurry of long-legged dancers dressed in holiday sparkles. It’s beyond amazing. I cannot fathom this many famous musicians all on one stage. If Riley were here, I’m afraid she would pass out.

  Peyton Barnes waves and blows kisses as she walks off the stage. There were rumors that the pop star used to date Dannon White, one of Mason’s former bandmates. (A fact I only know thanks to Riley sending me tidbits about the performers all afternoon.) Granger steps back on the stage, praising Peyton’s performance.

  I think we’re nearing the end of the show, and I twist my clutch in my hands. It’s silly, but I’m nervous about my reaction to Mason’s performance—and I’m not worried I’ll like it. No, I’m afraid I’ll like it too much.

  No matter what I’ve said to Riley, Mason is incredibly talented. His solo work is a little grittier than the pop music of his youth—a little closer to rock. Just the thought of watching him up on that stage makes my chest tight.

  Granger goes on about some Christmas memory, and then he finally prepares to introduce the next performer. He strikes a casual pose, leaning against a wreath-decked lamppost stage prop.

  “So, ladies,” he drawls in a southern accent, “tell me the truth. How many of you are here to see Mason Knight?”

  The female half of the audience goes wild. I look around, laughing in surprise. Not everyone is impressed, mind you. A few of the younger men roll their eyes, and some of the older gentlemen shake their heads in a baffled way.

  As I’m watching the crowd’s reaction, the lights go out on the stage. The hall is nearly pitch black now, lit only by a few dim safety lights.

  The orchestra begins the first strains of a sweet, romantic Christmas song. It’s familiar—a little bit pop, a little bit rock, but even though I’ve heard it a hundred times, I’m not prepared for Mason’s deep, rich voice in the dark.

  Slowly, the lights come up, and the audience’s screams are deafening.

  And I’m done for—the costumer put Mason in a tux. An actual, honest-to-goodness tuxedo. He looks so handsome, I can’t even process it.

  The song’s pace picks up, and the stage lights blaze, changing color and brilliance with the music. Mason smiles in that heart-wrenching way of his, and he somehow finds me in the audience. I don’t know how he sees anything with the bright lights, not unless he already knew where I was sitting—which of course, he probably did.

  After a long, rather intense moment that sends a riot of butterflies in my stomach, Mason breaks eye contact with me and sings to the rest of his adoring fans, as he must. However, his gaze returns to my spot in the audience every so often, and every time it does, my heart nearly stops.

  He’s amazing, so talented. No wonder they love him.

  The song is over far too soon, and half the audience—again, the female half—leaps to their feet as soon as the music ebbs.

  Granger walks out on the stage, laughing in a good-humored way at the crowd’s response. The country star is huge, and he’s doing a good job of taking it in stride that Mason’s basically stolen his show.

  “You’re going to have to host next year,” Granger jokes. He holds his hand out, acknowledging the audience. “What do you think? Can he sing?”

  I find myself clapping like a fool right along with the rest of the starry-eyed women.

  “So, tell me, Mason,” Granger says, and the hall quiets so we can hear him. “You sang that like you had a particular girl in mind. Do you have someone special you’d like to spend Christmas with this year?”

  Mason laughs in a boy-next-door sort of way. “Maybe I do.”

  I hope breathing is overrated because I can’t seem to remember how to.

  “Anyone we know?” Granger asks, and he raises his eyebrows at the audience as if they’re all in on some secret j
oke. “Someone who bakes by any chance?”

  Again, the crowd cheers, and I am positively stunned.

  Mason grins, and I’m close enough I can see a hint of the dimples in his cheeks. He gives Granger and the audience a noncommittal shrug that’s neither an affirmation or a denial.

  After several more minutes of banter, Mason waves to the screaming crowd as he walks off the stage, making way for Granger’s last performance of the night. As soon as the main lights come up, Yvonne appears at the end of my row.

  I murmur excuse mes as I slide past the people in the row to join her. I follow her through the growing crowd. “Are we going backstage?”

  She turns back so she doesn’t have to yell. “We’re going to the apartment above. Mason’s already waiting for you.”

  I look up. “There’s an apartment above us?”

  Yvonne flashes me a smirk and escorts me into the back walkways of the historic music hall. The entire building has an art deco feel—very Old Hollywood luxurious. A man stands outside the door we’re headed toward, and he opens it as soon as he sees Yvonne.

  “Ladies,” he says.

  I’m not sure what to expect, but it’s not half the musicians who performed this evening. I freeze next to Yvonne, star struck. Mason crosses the room, ready to save me.

  His eyebrows shoot up as he takes in my outfit. Stepping close, he quietly says, “Harper, you look amazing.”

  Before I can answer, blond and beautiful Peyton Barnes joins us, eying me with a catlike smile. “Well, look at this. Mason actually has a date.”

  “Peyton, this is Harper.” Mason steps next to me, smoothly sliding my arm into his. “Harper, Peyton.”

  The girl offers her hand, and I accept it, my muscles working on memory alone because my brain keeps repeating Peyton Barnes, Peyton Barnes, Peyton Barnes.

  “Pleasure,” she says, her voice husky like her songs. Then she turns her attention to Mason, asking him questions about the technical aspects of his performance. Apparently, her earpiece wasn’t working.

  As they talk shop, I look around, basically gawking. Granger chats with a trio in the corner, and several members of the various bands wander about.

  “Are you going to the after party?” Peyton asks, drawing me back to the conversation.

  Mason shakes his head. “We have to fly back to Denver tonight.”

  “Clark’s going to let you miss such a prominent photo op?” she asks, incredulous. “You know we’ll be all over the papers tomorrow.”

  “Even Clark acknowledges I can’t be in two places at once, and Harper is expected to be at the lodge for the pre-episode interviews at nine.”

  Peyton narrows her eyes slightly. “You are her—the girl the media’s going gaga over.”

  I glance at Mason, unsure how to respond. Mason squeezes my arm with his. “It’s all right. Peyton’s cool.”

  “Mum’s the word,” the singer promises.

  And though I think I believe her, I’m not sure.

  “Jason’s finally here,” Peyton says, craning her neck to look over my shoulder at the guitar playing musician whose music is a touch too angsty for my tastes.

  I twist my head, looking over my shoulder. The blond-haired singer makes his way into the room, greeting people with a friendly wave. He seems nice enough, but I can’t get behind that hair. It’s in a man bun.

  “Excuse me,” Peyton says, already making her way to Jason.

  “What do you think?” Mason whispers in my ear, teasing. “Should I grow my hair out, sport a sweet style like Jason?”

  I give him a withering look. “You should stick with what you have going.” Unable to help myself, I set my hand on his tuxedo-clad chest. “You clean up nice, Mr. Knight.”

  “Yeah?” he steps a touch closer. “The tux is miserable, but if you like it, then I suppose it’s worth a little discomfort.”

  I run my hand along the silky, soft fabric. “How could it be miserable? It must be custom-made, and it feels like it was woven from unicorn hair.”

  Mason tips back his head and laughs. It’s a rich sound, and it makes me think of our kiss last night. I go warm, and I resist the urge to fan my face. If he studies me too closely, I’m sure he’ll realize where my mind has wandered.

  “Mason,” someone calls from across the small apartment, beckoning us toward their group.

  We mingle for a bit, and I rub elbows with people I never dreamed of meeting. Most of them are welcoming, some are already half-drunk, and a few are downright obnoxious. Mason shows me a glass case that contains a book with signatures from many of the famous people who have visited the room or performed at Radio City, and I gawk at the names for a few moments before someone else demands Mason’s attention.

  “Are you ready to go?” Mason asks quietly after we’ve visited all the little clusters in the medium-sized room. I nod, and we say our goodbyes.

  Mason’s stopped several times on our way out of the building, mostly by behind-the-scenes types who want to congratulate him on a successful performance.

  When we’re nearing the exit, he asks, “Do you want to walk to Rockefeller Center to see the tree?”

  My feet are killing me. The shoes are gorgeous, but wearing them for more than an hour is torture.

  “How far is it?” I ask.

  “Just around the back of the building.”

  I want to see it—more, I want to see it with Mason. Talk about a memory. One day, a long time from now when I’m watching a Christmas movie scene set at Rockefeller Center with my grandchildren, I can tell them I saw the huge tree in person with a celebrity. Of course, they won’t have a clue who Mason is at that time, but still.

  “All right,” I agree, and we head toward a back exit. Each step is excruciating.

  Ow. Ow. Ow. Work through the pain. Ow. Ow. Ow. Darn gorgeous heels.

  We step out the door and into the cold winter air.

  “Will you be warm enough?” Mason asks as I drape my white, faux-fur wrap around my shoulders. He frowns as he eyes my bare legs. “Let’s take a car.”

  Already shivering, I nod. “Aren’t you worried about being spotted anyway?”

  He glances down at his tux. “Too conspicuous?”

  “Not if you’re James Bond.”

  Laughing, he hails a cab. The driver glances at us, but it’s obvious he doesn’t care who we are as long as we pay. We hurry inside the car.

  “Rockefeller Center,” Mason says.

  The guy looks over his shoulder and says in a thick Brooklyn accent, “Are ya serious?” When he sees that Mason is, in fact, quite serious, he shakes his head and merges/forces his way onto the street.

  Less than a minute later—and it only takes that long because of traffic—we arrive.

  The cab driver mutters as he pulls away, but I’m too busy gaping at the tree to care. It’s huge—much larger than it looks on television—and so very beautiful. It’s not too late, half past ten, and there are plenty of people ice skating. I watch them, entranced with the Christmas decor, the lights from the tall buildings surrounding us, and of course, the tree.

  “It’s amazing,” I whisper.

  No one’s paying us any attention, but Mason scans the area, checking just to be safe. He stands close, trying to block me from the slight breeze.

  I shiver in my short dress, but I don’t want to go yet.

  “Did you have a nice time?” he asks.

  I turn to him. “This whole evening has been unreal, Mason.”

  He presses our palms together and then steps in, locking our clasped hands between us.

  “Thank you for everything.” I pause, losing myself in his gaze. “It’s been the most magical night of my life.”

  “You’re welcome, Harper,” he murmurs, pressing closer still. “I’m so glad you came with me.”

  There’s merry commotion all around us, but we’ve stepped into our own world. There’s only Mason and me, and nothing could make the night more perfect…except for another kiss.


  The only thing holding me back is my pesky common sense. I’m smart enough to know I can’t expect a relationship from Mason—our lives are too different. We met at a crossroad—a beautiful, magical, amazing crossroad—but eventually, we’re going to go our separate ways. Before I give in to this, I must prepare myself for the loss at the end.

  We’ve drifted even closer. Mason’s warmth is such a stark contrast to the cold night. I want to step into his arms, let myself pretend there’s a future for us.

  “I can see the indecision in your eyes,” he whispers, and he’s close enough I can feel his breath on my lips. “Why are you fighting it?”

  “Whatever this is, it’s perfect but fleeting,” I say, squeezing his hands. “I just suffered one broken heart. I’m not sure I can handle the crushing reality of another.”

  “Why are you so determined to believe we can’t work?” he demands softly.

  “Besides the obvious? We barely know each other.” I pull away because my practical side is beginning to win.

  “Then give me the chance to get to know you,” he says, tugging me back. “That’s all I want—a chance.”

  “Mason.”

  “Harper,” he says, and a spark of humor finally lights his pretty eyes. “I have several months to work on new songs for the upcoming album, and I can do that in Montana. I’ll buy a house, if that’s what it takes to convince you I’m serious about this. We’ll figure it out.”

  Hope blooms in my chest, but I’m scared to let it take root.

  “In Montana?”

  “I don’t care for LA or Nashville, and though New York is fun to visit, you couldn’t pay me to live here. Montana is home—it always has been; it always will be.”

  “What happens once you write your songs?” I ask.

  “I’ll have to record in LA and then go on tour—but you’ll come with me. I wasn’t joking—work as my personal pastry chef while you write your cookbook. My crew won’t complain, I promise you that.”

  “What if things don’t work out between us? Then what?”

  He shrugs and gives me a teasing look. “We’ll deal with it. And for the record, I’ve heard that happens between normal, non-televised people as well.”