Page 22 of Sugar and Spice (Glitter and Sparkle #3)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I don’t know what’s worse: that we had to make another identical wreath, or that we only had to do it so they’d have a prop for judging. Tammy admitted that the judges could taste the leftover cookies and that the cameramen already got a good shot of the original.

But that wasn’t enough for television.

By the time I make it up to Mason’s room, it’s well past dark, and I’m both exhausted and grumpy.

I knock, not caring who sees me.

“Tell me you have food in here,” I say as soon as he opens the door.

A quick grin flashes across his face, and he ushers me inside. His flat-screen TV is on low, and it’s a nice comforting chatter in the background.

“I can call room service,” he offers.

“I need chocolate and caffeine.” I slouch against his wall. “And a hamburger. Something greasy and cheesy and not at all gourmet. But I’ll settle for a fussy petite filet mignon if I have to.”

Mason closes the door. “You’re my kind of girl.”

His words settle over me like a cozy, warm blanket, and I abruptly say, “I’ll go with you tomorrow.”

He pauses, and his dimples appear, nearly doing me in. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You look tired.” He crosses the room to stand in front of me, and his hands end up on my shoulders.

I groan and rest my head against the wall when he begins to rub them. His hands are warm and firm, and I feel myself melting under his touch.

“You smell good,” I say. It’s only safe to admit such a thing because my eyes are closed, therefore I can’t see his reaction.

His hands go still for half a moment, and then his fingers return to their task.

“You do too,” he says, his voice a fraction deeper than before.

Mason has a fabulous voice. It’s deep, but not too deep. It’s a perfect tenor—smooth and rich. Like a velvety caramel latte.

“I do not,” I argue. “I’ve been under those awful, hot lights all day.”

“You smell like cookies and frosting.” To prove his point, he nuzzles his nose against my neck. “Probably because you can’t seem to keep from dousing yourself with the ingredients.”

I freeze, and my eyes fly open. Mason’s breath is on my skin, and my nerves sing with pleasure. His dark hair brushes against my cheek, and before he pulls back, my poor, over-stimulated brain somehow manages to notice that the short strands are cool.

He must have recently showered, and that’s why he smells so strongly of clean, fresh soap and shampoo. I give in to the urge to breathe in the fresh, airy fragrance—after all, what sane girl would let an opportunity like this pass her by?

So badly, I want to raise my hand and run my fingers through his hair. I restrain myself somehow, but it’s not easy.

It only takes seconds for Mason to lift his head, but I’m already breathless.

“For such a seemingly meticulous person, you’re a disaster in the kitchen,” he says casually, continuing his train of thought even though I’ve drifted far, far away.

I’m not sure he even knows that he just short-circuited my world. He backs up to arm’s length, with his hands still on my shoulders, and looks at me as if nothing just happened.

But when I really look, something in Mason’s expression—maybe the tiny, crooked tilt of his lips or the way his eyes crinkle at the edges—gives him away. He knew exactly what he was doing.

That, however, only makes it worse. Because it means he was having the same thoughts I was, and if I’d only acted on them…

I still could.

Mason’s hands pause on my shoulders, almost as if he can read my mind.

With a questioning look in his eyes, he takes a step closer. I’m just about to wind my arms around his waist when something on the television catches my attention.

Before, it was nothing more than background noise, but now I recognize Sadie’s voice.

I turn toward the TV, startled to find our show on. “You’re watching it?”

I knew they had to get it up tonight, but it was close with our late judging.

“I like to watch you work.” Mason turns toward the medium-sized flat-screen TV, so we’re standing side-by-side. “You’re careful and focused. You and Sadie are so in sync, you hardly even speak to each other.”

Frowning at the screen as Sadie tells the story of her grandmother teaching her to bake, I say, “I’m not sure it’s because we’re in sync necessarily.”

Mason turns back to me and gives me a soft smile. “Are things still tense between you two?”

“Yeah.”

Then the camera focuses on me, and I hold my breath, feeling slightly sick as I watch myself tell the world—and mostly my parents—about my desire to publish my own cookbook.

Too late I remember Dave’s questions about Mason.

“ What kind of response do you want me to give you? ” On the screen, my eyes flash with irritation.

“ Do you want me to say that Mason is even more handsome in person? That his eyes are truly gray—the exact color of storm clouds in winter or some such nonsense? Fine. He’s handsome, all right?

At first, it was disconcerting to be in the same room.

He’s funny and charming, and when he smiles at you… ”

I watch, half-horrified as I lose my train of thought on camera. I thought they’d cut some of it, but it’s worse that they didn’t. I like Mason a little more than I should. Maybe even a little more than I thought.

I look at Mason from the corner of my eye, not daring to breathe. His whole attention is on the television, and he doesn’t look my way until the next interview is on.

“You think I’m handsome, funny, and charming, do you?”

Slowly, wanting to deny it but knowing there’s no point now, I shrug.

He’s still next to me, and he turns his head until his jaw hovers over my ear. Then he whispers, “What happens when I smile at you?”

I raise my eyebrows and give him a droll look that makes him laugh.

“So, you’re writing a cupcake cookbook?”

I’m not sure this subject is any safer. I turn from him, putting distance between us as I wander his room. “Mmmhmm.”

“Why do you look guilty? ”

Gulping, I turn to him. “My family…they won’t understand. In fact, now that the show is on the air, I expect a phone call any minute.”

“You’re in college—what career are you working toward?”

My temples throb at the thought. “I very seriously considered becoming a dentist specializing in pediatrics.”

He studies me. “Why?”

I scrunch my nose. “Dentists make good money, and children’s mouths don’t seem like they’d be as disgusting as adults.”

“But do you want to be a dentist?”

“Not particularly. That’s why I’ve changed my mind.”

“You could become a pastry chef,” he offers.

I shake my head. “I don’t see myself baking for a living like that. I’m afraid I’d start to hate it.”

“You’ve charmed half of America. Maybe you can snag your own HBN show.”

I roll my eyes. “Half of America knows my name because of you. ”

He snaps his fingers, his gray eyes lighting. “You could become my personal pastry chef—travel with me, use me as a guinea pig tester for new cupcake recipes for your cookbook.”

He’s only teasing, Harper.

I must remind myself because the scene that passes through my brain is far too domestic and appealing.

“Funny.”

Mason holds out his hands. “Trust me—some performers ask for far more on the road.”

I wave the thought away before I can let myself believe he’s serious.

“Don’t turn the offer down before you’ve seen my kitchen.” He sits on the couch, making himself comfortable.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Why not? I have a lack of homemade food in my life, and it sounds like you need a job while you’re working on your cookbook.”

“Are you always this impulsive?” I ask, laughing. “You barely know me.”

He grins in a devilish way that makes me a little wobbly. “But the part I’ve gotten to know, I like. Quite a lot.”

A text comes in, and I’m happy for the distraction. My brain is whirring with possibilities. Traveling the world with Mason? Working on my cookbook along the way?

No, it’s insane.

“And it starts,” I murmur.

“What’s wrong?” Mason’s off the couch in an instant.

“It’s Riley. Mom just called her.”

He looks surprised. “That was fast.”

“Tell me about it.” I sigh. “I should probably go so I can do damage control.”

Before I leave, Mason catches my hand. “You’re still going with me tomorrow, right?”

I nod.

“My assistant will call in the morning. She’ll get you anything you nee?—”

“Mason, you know very well I can’t accept all that.”

“Don’t be difficult.” He gives me a wicked grin. “Just think of it as an advance on your pay.”

“I can’t take a fictional job as your personal pastry chef either.”

“You can.” He leans down, meeting my eyes. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”

He looks so earnest, I finally give in. “I’ll think about it—but you have to admit it’s ridiculous.”

Vehemently disagreeing, he says, “It’s the best idea I’ve ever had.”

“The judges and the viewers were impressed with your cookie wreaths, but there were two that proved to be exceptional,” Mason says to us.

I stand under the bright lights, holding my breath. If we win yesterday’s challenge, it would make baking and decorating those blasted wreaths worth doing twice.

“Chrissy and Christy, the judges and viewers found your wreath’s design to be whimsical, and Alexandra said the taste was divine.

” Mason turns to Sadie and me, and I straighten.

“Harper and Sadie, the judges said your butter cookies were perfectly executed, and your simple, yet tasteful design was worthy of the cover of a holiday magazine.”

We’re in the top two. Please let us win this one.

“But Chrissy and Christy, yours rated just a bit higher with the judges, and you are the winners of the cookie wreath competition.” If you didn’t know Mason, you wouldn’t be able to tell his smile is forced. “Congratulations.”

I let out a frustrated breath as the two squeal like teenagers. Sadie nudges me, reminding me to clap with the rest. The two harpies didn’t use one single orange on their entire wreath.