Page 26 of Sugar and Spice (Glitter and Sparkle #3)
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 percent 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 joke. “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.”