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

by Shari L. Tapscott

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  Letter from Shari

  About the Author

  Glitter and Sparkle, Book 3

  Copyright © 2017 by Shari L. Tapscott

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing by Z.A. Sunday

  Cover Design by Shari L. Tapscott

  For all the girls who have sighed over albums.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’m going to become a hermit. Before you decide I’m crazy and move on to something else, let me explain why.

  1. Hermits don’t fall in love with the sons of family friends and end up heartbroken when they bring home girlfriends from college at Thanksgiving.

  2. Hermits don’t have well-meaning sisters who hound them to move on with their lives after such a heartbreak.

  3. In fact, with all the lovely new grocery services, hermits don’t have to talk to people at all. They can peek out the door with wild hair, sans makeup, in pajamas, and pull the bags inside whilst tossing a tip at the delivery boy.

  4. And, most importantly, hermits don’t end up on dates with good-looking guys who are so long-winded, they make even the worst politician seem concise in comparison.

  “And that’s how I convinced management that blue ties should be stipulated in the dress code,” my date says, finishing up a long monologue about something that I’m sure you’ve already surmised was as boring as dirt.

  I hold back a yawn, nod politely, and take a quick peek at my phone, which is sitting on my lap. It’s only seven forty-eight—too soon to call it a night and too late to crawl out a bathroom window and make a run for it.

  “So, tell me about yourself, Harper,” Kevin says as he leans forward and crosses his hands on the table like we’re at a job interview.

  Because he’s cute and it’s been too long since I’ve been on a proper date (or a date of any sort, actually), I set my elbow on the table, and let my hand drift over my neck as I give him my best come-hither smile. “What do you want to know?”

  He frowns, perhaps confused why I’m asking for prompts. “The usual—where you’re from, hobbies, life aspirations.”

  I sit back and sigh. It’s not going to work out with Kevin, no matter how good-looking he is. “I grew up here, I like to bake, and I’m still figuring out what I want to do with my life.”

  “Really?” Kevin gives me a perplexed look. “How old are you?”

  “I turned twenty-one last month.”

  “And you don’t know what you want to do yet?”

  I shrug. I had planned to become a pediatric dentist, and then I came to terms with the fact that I’m rather averse to bodily fluids. I’ve been considering going to culinary school, but I’m not sure that’s right for me either. What I really want to do is start a baking blog and write a cupcake cookbook. However, the thought of admitting those new life goals to my parents makes the idea far less appealing.

  “There’s still time to decide,” I say, hoping with all my heart that’s true.

  Kevin’s eyes dart to his wristwatch, and I almost laugh out loud. I’m boring him.

  “Will you excuse me for a moment?” I ask, already rising. “I need to visit the ladies’ room.”

  He stands with me, probably trying to be a gentleman, but it’s just awkward. I give him a small, somewhat forced smile, and hurry past the table. The restaurant is the usual fancy sort of establishment—white tablecloths, sparkling wine glasses, fussy settings. The waitstaff wears black slacks and white button-up shirts with short, black aprons. It’s all very classy and elegant.

  The bathroom even has a couch, which is convenient since I have a call to make.

  My sister’s phone goes to voicemail, so I proceed to call several friends. When no one answers, I frown and scroll through my phone book. Finally, I click “Lauren,” though I don’t expect her to pick up either. Everyone’s probably out celebrating since classes just let out for winter break, and my sister’s best friend is sure to be enjoying her Friday night like everyone else.

  The phone rings twice, and then a guy answers. “Hey, Harper. How’s it going?”

  No, no, no. I stare at my phone in horror.

  He wasn’t supposed to answer. What’s he doing with his sister’s phone anyway?

  “Harper?” he repeats.

  “Bran…Brandon? I mean hi. Hello.” I grimace at how syrupy I sound and clear my throat, taking it down a notch or four. “Hey.”

  “Hi, hello, hey,” he parrots, trying not to laugh. I can hear the grin in his voice, see the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

  Be still, my stupid, punishment-loving heart.

  “So, what’s up?” he asks.

  “I need to talk to your sister,” I blurt out. “It’s kind of urgent.”

  “You mean you didn’t call her phone to talk to me? I’m hurt.”

  I laugh because that’s what Normal Harper would do, but it’s a tiny bit on the hysterical side. “Let me talk to Lauren.”

  “Well, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.” I can tell by his tone that he’s settling in for a conversation. “My darling baby sister stole my best friend and left me all by myself for the evening. She forgot her phone on the counter, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. What can I do for you?”

  “You know what? Okay. You can help me.” My desperation to end the night trumps my need to avoid Brandon for the rest of my life. “Call me in five minutes, okay? Then ignore everything I say.”

  He’s quiet for a moment as if he’s trying to figure out why he would do that, but then he slowly says, “Okay…”

  “Awesome, thanks.” I end the call, take a deep breath, and will my pulse to return to a normal pace.

  A young woman in a navy business suit and conservative nude pumps eyes me curiously as she washes her hands. Maybe I should point her toward my date. She seems more Kevin’s type.

  Once I’ve collected myself, I walk back to my seat and smile as I sit. I just have to make it through five more minutes—more like four now. No problem.

  Just as I’m about to ask Kevin another question about his career—which seems to be his favorite topic, his phone rings.

  He grimaces when he looks at the screen. “I’m sorry, I should take this.”

  I shrug, giving him the go ahead. It’s less time I have to pretend to be interested. I take a sip from my water glas
s but pause with it halfway to my lips because Keven frowns, and he looks concerned.

  “You’re sure it can’t wait?” Deeper frown. “No, of course I understand.” Nod, nod, nod. “Yes, I can come now.”

  You have to be kidding—he pulled the phone trick on me?

  Keven hangs up and gives me a look so full of genuine disappointment, I begin to think he should have gone into acting instead of banking. “I’m sorry, but an emergency has come up, and I’m afraid I have to go.”

  I nod, trying to look contrite. “Of course. I completely understand.”

  He waves a waiter over, hands him a crisp green bill that will more than cover the meal, and then stands. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Harper.”

  “Thank you for dinner.”

  Neither of us makes plans for a second date, and we awkwardly part at the door.

  “I’m this way.” I point to the right.

  He points to the left. “I’m over here.”

  Right.

  I give him a little wave before things can get worse. Just before I reach my car, my phone rings. This time it’s Brandon’s number. I’m not sure why I still have it in my phone. Not now that he has Sadie.

  “You’re too late,” I tell him as soon as I answer. “My date faked his exit first.”

  “Is that what we were doing? Escaping a date?”

  I unlock my car, slide into the seat, and rest my head against the headrest. “That was the plan.”

  “Now wait just one minute…Harper Marie, did you call me while you were on a date?”

  “I didn’t call you.” I smile despite myself. “I called your sister.”

  Ignoring me, Brandon goes on. “It was bad, huh?” He sounds a touch too cheerful.

  “We discussed tie colors for ten minutes.”

  Brandon groans. I can see him in my mind, stretched out on his couch, arm over his head, one foot on his mother’s coffee table. It’s evening, and since he’s home, he’s probably in basketball shorts and a loose T-shirt. The last time he wore a tie was for a funeral. I doubt he even knows where it’s at now.

  “So…you’re all dressed up, huh?” Then, in a mock sexy voice, he asks, “What are you wearing?”

  “I’m going to hang up on you.”

  He’s not flirting, not really. He’s just Brandon, and that’s what he does. Still, Sadie should keep him on a shorter leash.

  Yes, I’m a little bitter. Or a lot bitter. But when the boy I’ve adored forever comes home with a blue-eyed, blond-haired girl who looks like she just stepped out of Wonderland, can you blame me? Sadie is perfect and sweet and lovely. I cannot stand her.

  “Where are you?” he asks. “Do you have a ride home?”

  And for one split second, I debate lying. Why no, Brandon, I’m stranded. Come rescue me.

  “We met at the restaurant.”

  “Smart girl. All the better for running away.”

  I’m not sure how to answer that, so I let out a very ladylike grunt.

  He’s quiet for a moment, and I’m just about to put myself out of my misery and end the call, when he says, “Rumor has it you transferred back home for good.”

  I cringe, wondering how much of the rumor he knows. “Yep.”

  “About time. It’s been weird without you around.”

  “Weird how?” I ask, though I should say goodbye, pretend we never talked.

  He groans a little, like he’s stretching. “Quiet weird. Not many people came home for the holidays this year. Even my little sister’s too busy for me, and my best friend is too busy with my little sister.”

  “What about Sadie?” I ask, and then I smack my head against the headrest. Like I want to know.

  “She’s in Missoula.”

  I don’t answer right away; I’m too busy dissecting that short sentence. Why is Sadie still in Missoula? Why isn’t he with her? Why didn’t they figure out some way to spend Christmas together? I know if Brandon were mine, I wouldn’t waste a minute. Not again.

  “But she’s driving in tomorrow,” he continues. “We’ll hang out here through Christmas, and then I’m going to her parent’s place for New Year’s.”

  “That’s…great.” I almost sound like I mean it.

  “Hey, Harper,” he says, his voice changing somehow—becoming more serious. “You like Sadie, don’t you?”

  Can’t stand her.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say with zero enthusiasm. “She seems great.”

  “You think I can’t tell when you’re lying?” he asks, and though he’s teasing…he’s not.

  I toy with my keys, wishing I’d ended the call when I had the chance. “She’s very pretty, and she seems really nice.”

  “You should try, okay? She’s really shy, and she doesn’t think you like her.”

  Probably because I don’t.

  Let me tell you a little more about Brandon, give you a brief glimpse of our history. Not only are our younger sisters the best of friends, but our parents are annoyingly close. Basically, we’ve been thrust together for every birthday party, backyard barbecue, and most holidays. If there was cake or pie involved, we were at his house, or his family was at mine.

  On top of that, we were also in the same grade in school. Brandon was the boy who used to pull my French braid when he sat at the desk behind me in kindergarten. In seventh grade, he’d trade his mother’s homemade chocolate chip cookies for my Hostess cupcake, just because he knew how much I loved them. In eighth, he was always begging to come over and copy my notes when he forgot to study—which was every weekend.

  He’s the boy who grew up to be our school’s favorite dark-haired, blue-eyed sports star.

  The boy every girl wanted to date and every guy wanted to be.

  The boy who punched my at-the-time boyfriend, Roger Callahan, when he caught the jerk kissing Chloe Connors under the bleachers during the homecoming game our senior year.

  The boy who everyone swore was in love with me despite his revolving door of beautiful but short-lived girlfriends in high school.

  And lastly, he’s the boy who brought home Sadie to meet his parents when I finally got the courage to transfer home to the local college from Texas to admit that I’ve loved him forever.

  We have history—and far too much of it. And he’s right. I must play nice, because the holidays are going to be miserable if I don’t suck it up and be a big girl. Of course, he doesn’t know why the very sight of her makes me ill. And I’d like to keep it that way.

  “I like her, okay?” I finally answer.

  “Well, great, cause your mom invited us to join your family for dinner tomorrow night.” He’s smirking. I don’t have to see him; I can tell. Call it my superpower, if you will.

  “Wonderful,” I say, panicking just a little.

  “See you tomorrow, Harper Marie.”

  I end the call and smack my forehead against the steering wheel, inadvertently honking the horn. An elderly couple just happens to be walking by, and they jump at the noise. They turn to glare at me, and I shrink into my seat.

  Just wonderful.

  CHAPTER TWO

  With a wee bit too much exuberance, I stab a cupcake with a toothpick to check if it’s done. It is, of course. It’s perfect. They’re always perfect. That’s the thing about baking—you follow the recipe, and everything turns out exactly as it should.

  You know how men say women should come with instructions? Well, men should come with a recipe. And if it doesn’t work out, at least you get to stab them with a toothpick.

  “Riley, I swear this is the third time we’ve heard this song in an hour,” I gripe as I slide the second cupcake tin on the cooling rack.

  My eighteen-year-old sister bops her head to a single off a new Christmas album that our local radio station insists on playing constantly. She has her long, blond hair loosely braided today, and she wears her genius boyfriend’s Colorado School of Mines sweatshirt. Riley’s best friend, Lauren, sits next to her, looking like she stepped out of a winter clothing
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  “It’s catchy,” Riley argues, and she has the audacity to turn up the volume.

  “Mason Knight could start singing alternative grunge, and you’d still fawn over him.”

  Riley shakes her head, vehemently disagreeing. “I like his music—not him.”

  Considering she had no less than four Forever Now posters in her room when she was thirteen, I have to disagree. Now the boy band has broken up, and Mason’s gone solo. He released a Christmas album that came out the day after Thanksgiving. And this particular song is everywhere—it’s the official holiday tune for a major teen clothing store commercial, it’s blaring from speakers in our local mall, and the radio plays it at least twenty times a day.

  It doesn’t help that Mason Knight, Mr. Forever Now, the teen heartthrob himself, is from our Montana town. In fact, he and I were in the same grade. If we’d gone to the same school, we might have had classes together.

  Of course, that was before he was discovered at fourteen and whisked into the rosy glow of national tours and multi-platinum albums. Still, for at least a year, fourteen-year-old Riley bemoaned the fact that we lived five minutes north of the school division line.

  But me? I couldn’t care less. Not then, not now. I don’t have to meet him to know his type—entitled, rich-boy snob. And can he change a tire? Throw a football? Start a fire? Basically do half the things Brandon can with his eyes closed? I think not, and therefore, he holds none of my interest.

  And yes, I do know it’s not healthy to continue to compare every guy I meet to Brandon, but old habits die hard.

  Especially when that habit comes waltzing into the kitchen. Granted, it’s his kitchen, but that’s not the point. Brandon’s supposed to be out with Sadie—Lauren swore it.

  But he’s here, with a bead of sweat dripping from his brow, his T-shirt damp from whatever game he got all sweaty playing. As if he doesn’t see the three of us, he opens the fridge and takes a swallow of milk straight from the carton. Then he turns, casual as you please, and leans against the counter. His eyes are the darkest blue—the kind of eyes you can get lost in, and they’re trained right on me.