Page 55 of Sugar and Spice
We filter out of the kitchen, off to complete our interviews. I’m just about through the door when I hear a horrible crash. Every single one of the competitors freezes in horror. Slowly, we turn.
One of the young crew members—a lackey whose name I don’t even know, stands next to our station, staring in horror at the crumbled cookie wreath on the ground.
Everything around me seems to go into slow motion. There are dozens of people talking all at once. Tammy is hollering, but I barely hear her. Our wreath is ruined.
Sadie makes a choking noise that sounds like a sob, but I can only stare.
Mason turns toward the young man, his eyes flashing with anger.
“What happened?” Tammy demands as she storms across the kitchen set.
“It must have been on the edge,” the young man stammers. “I don’t know how I bumped it.”
Itwasn’ton the edge, but I keep my mouth shut. I don’t trust myself to talk yet—not without using language my mother would not approve of. Especially on television, because youknowone of the cameramen would film me.
Tammy rubs her temples, looking like she’s about to go ballistic. “They don’t pay me enough.” She turns to us. “Harper, Sadie, I apologize, but I’m going to have to ask you to stay behind and make another for judging.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I don’t knowwhat’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.”
