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 insa
ne.
“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 wreathes, 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.
“Unfortunately, we have to send two teams home today. Jerome and Cole, Scott and Misty, and Max and Eugene, you’re in the bottom three. Jerome and Cole, the judges said your design was sloppy, but your sugar cookies tasted great. Scott and Mindy, the judges said you spent too much time on a design that didn’t work, and your cookie base was dry. Eugene and Max, the judges said your cookie was nice, but it didn’t stand out.”
We hold our breath, waiting to hear the judges’ and viewers’ decision.
“I’m sorry, Scott, Misty, Eugene, and Max, you’re going home.”
Cole closes his eyes and tips back his head, relieved. Jerome clasps Scott’s shoulder, showing his condolences. We shake hands with Eugene and hug Max.
I liked both teams, and I think we’re all sad to see them go. Everyone except Chrissy and Christy that is. They’re still busy reveling in their win.
“We’re down to five teams.”
I glance at our competition. Sarah and Quinn, Cole and Jerome, Jessica and Anne, Sadie and I, and Chrissy and Christy are all that’s left of the original twelve teams.
“Yesterday’s competition was all about design, but today’s is about taste. You are going to take a traditional holiday cookie—a cookie that isn’t usually a favorite—and turn into something delicious.”
“You have ninety minutes to make three variations of Russian teacakes.”
Sadie stiffens beside me and whispers, “What’s a Russian teacake?”
“It’s a round nut cookie rolled in powdered sugar.”
She nods, and I can tell her mind is already working.
“And…go!” Mason says, setting the timer on a network-provided tablet.
We scramble to our workstations like we need all the time we can get, but I’m confident. Brandon’s mom makes the best Russian teacakes every year for Christmas, and she’s been letting me help since I was ten. I know them like I know the recipe for my basic chocolate cupcakes.
“Any ideas?” Sadie asks when she returns from the ingredient cabinet with an armload of nuts.
I grin, confident we’re going to win this thing. “Lots.”
An hour and ten minutes later, we have six dozen perfectly powdered, tender-as-can-be, little round, ball-shaped cookies stacked on three platters. Now we’re adding garnishes to make them pretty.
Mason’s already made his rounds, but he comes by again and whispers, “Chrissy and Christy burned a batch, and they’re scrambling to make another.”
I try not to smile; I really do. But, oh, those two are awful.
Anne hobbles from her station on her crutches, heading toward the ingredient cabinet. Since we’re finished, Sadie hurries to her. “Tell me what you need. I’ll help you carry it all back to your station.”
And this is why both the viewers and the judges are in love with her.
Mason looks around the room. He’s somehow lost his cameramen—they’re all busy filming cookies coming out of the ovens.
“Did Yvonne get in touch with you this morning?” he asks quietly as he comes to stand by my side.
I nod. Mason’s assistant called at half-past seven, asking for everything from my dress size to my preferred brand of beverage for the flight. I was only on the phone with her for five minutes, but I swear she knows me better than any of my past boyfriends.
“We’ll leave as soon as we’re done filming the judging,” he whispers, and then he moves away.
Now that our cookies are complete, I let myself daydream about New York. I told my mother I was going last night, and though she took it better than I expected, my father was not happy. After I swore for the eighth time I would conduct myself as the lady he raised me to be, he cooled marginally.
You would think that with two eight-year-old twin boys still at home, they wouldn’t feel the need to coddle me so much. They know I’m an adult, and they know I am capable of making my own choices, but they worry. I suppose that’s just the price you pay when you’re the eldest.
Of course, they worried about Riley too, but then she met Linus. Linus is a rock. A tall, handsome, sweet and wholesome, sandy-haired rock.
Mason is a musician—one with groupies. He also happens to have one major flaw that’s impossible to overlook—he’s not Brandon. I think all along, just like me, my parents expected us to end up together. They’re fighting some disappointment of their own.
I turn my eyes toward the ingredient cart where Sadie loads her arms full of garnishes for Anne. She gives the injured girl a big smile, more than happy to help.
As much as I hate to admit it, she’s perfect for Brandon. He deserves someone beautiful and sweet, and Sadie is both. Maybe it’s officially time I try to move on.
She catches me smiling as she walks back to the workstation. Instantly wary, she says, “What?”
I laugh. “You’re not so bad, Sadie.”
The girl looks astonished. “Um, thank you?”
A crash and two screams interrupt our conversation, and we both whirl around, toward the commotion.
Anne’s on the floor. She gasps, and her face has gone horribly pale. Chrissy lies on the floor next to Anne, sprawled out on her belly. The blond-haired woman pushes herself up and turns to Anne. The words that come out of her mouth aren’t fit for television, so it’s good the show is on an editing delay instead of live.
According to Chrissy, Anne purposely tripped her with one of her crutches.
Anne has the woman on heavy ignore, and a medic has already rushed over to assist.
“Harper, he’s not looking at Anne’s ankle,” Sadie whispers, horrified.
She’s right—he’s studying her hand and wearing a deep frown. It must hurt. Anne tries to hold back sobs, but tears run down her face. Luckily for her, she’s a pretty crier—the viewer
’s hearts will go out to her.
We stand here, watching the commotion as Tammy yells at everyone to get back to work. The timer doesn’t stop for anyone.
“Do you think she’s all right?” Sadie asks.
Mason and several of the crew members hurry to assist Anne as she tries to stand, but it quickly becomes apparent she’s not going to be able to use her crutches with an injured hand.
Cole gallantly strides forward, leaving Jerome to finish up the plating, and picks the girl up, bridal-style. She blinks at him, overwhelmed, and he carries her from the kitchen, with the medic leading the way.
Mason walks over to Sadie and me, his expression grim. “The medic thinks she broke her hand when she fell.”
“A sprained ankle and a broken hand?” Sadie exclaims. “How will she finish the competition?”
Mason purses his lips and shakes his head, but we both know what he’s thinking.
She won’t.
Chrissy is still making a fuss, and I watch her with disgust. The two women continue to claim Anne tripped Chrissy on purpose, and they all but demand the clock be reset. In the producer’s usual way, Tammy ignores their arguments and shoos them back to their workstation, not-so-gently reminding them time is almost up.
The two snarl, but they hurry back, trying to salvage their final batch. I’m sure they would have loved Tammy to reset the timer—after all, the cookies they slid in the oven before the ordeal are probably done now, and that would have given them extra time for cooling and decorating.
Since we’re finished, I have the freedom to watch them several more minutes, and one thing becomes clear.
Someone might have intentionally caused the two women to collide, but it wasn’t Anne.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Well, it’s official. At some point, I had a horrible accident, and I slipped into a coma. That’s the only way to explain my life right now—I must be dreaming.
Instead of having a car pick us up at the lodge, which Mason said would be too conspicuous, Linus drives us to a deserted parking lot near town. A shiny black SUV waits, sitting silently in the snow.
“You’re sure this isn’t a drug deal,” I joke, because that’s the only way to deal with my nerves.
Sugar and Spice (The Glitter and Sparkle Series Book 3) Page 13
