Page 27 of Sugar and Spice (Glitter and Sparkle #3)

“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.”

A cool breeze blows through the center, and I shiver again. Acknowledging I’m not in clothing suitable for the weather, Mason frowns and steps back, looking as if he’s about to hail another cab. “You’re freezing.”

He’s just holding up his hand when I make a rash decision. With my heart racing, I yank him back. Then I kiss him.

I’ve taken him completely off guard, and I end the kiss before he snaps out of his stupor.

“All right,” I say, determination heavy in my voice. “We’ll give it a shot.”

I step past him, ready to hail the cab myself, when he yanks me back. “Not so fast.”

Mason’s lips meet mine in a kiss that’s searing. My stomach clenches, and I fall against him, feeling as if I’m melting. His hands find my waist, and he holds me steady as I wrap my arms around his neck. He smells faintly of cologne—a new scent for him, and I breathe the fragrance in.

He’s mine. Mason Knight is mine. At least for now—and that’s good enough.

Mason’s kiss softens, becomes infinitely sweeter. His fingers spread over my waist, his skin hot through the fabric. I’ve almost forgotten about the cold night air that surrounds us—my brain has far more important things to focus on. I don’t even care that we’re in public.

My hand is just drifting to his chest when there’s a bright flash. Delirious with emotion and sensation, I pull back, startled. There’s another flash, and then another.

Mason utters a curse under his breath and tugs me behind him, almost as if he’s protecting me.

“It really is Mason Knight!” a girl close to Riley’s age squeals. Her friends press forward, asking questions all at once.

More people move in, like piranhas sensing blood—piranhas wielding phone cameras.

This is so very bad.

“Harper, do you have your phone?” Mason asks quietly as the girls press forward. He’s smiling, looking composed though I know better, greeting his fans and signing random things they’re thrusting his way. “Call Yvonne. Tell her to send a car.”

It’s insane how quickly the crowd is growing.

I pull my phone out of my clutch and gasp. I have twenty-nine missed calls, and several of them are from Yvonne.

Mason’s assistant answers on the first ring. “Where are you?” she demands, and after I tell her our location, she says, “Stay where you are. We’re coming for you.”

“Are you dating Mason?” one girl asks, focusing right on me. She has a predatory look about her, and I find myself shifting back.

Another steps forward. “Did you meet at the auditions, or did you already know him?”

More push forward, and suddenly I’m being asked a dozen questions. I don’t know how to answer a single one. Mason tries to block me, but it’s no use. There are too many of them.

Thankfully, Yvonne shows up in record time, and she’s brought Mason’s security with her. They surround us, pushing the crowd back as they pave the way to the waiting limo.

I climb inside, too horrified to find any pleasure in the butter-soft leather upholstery or fancy lights. All those pictures are sure to flood the Internet in no time.

Clark yells at Mason over the phone. Mason answers with several Yes, sirs and I know, sirs . He looks as if he’s aged several years in just a few minutes.

I take in a gulp of air, but it sounds suspiciously like a sob. Without a word, Mason reaches over and squeezes my hand.