Page 65 of Sugar and Spice
His lips graze mine, barely touching, and my hands find his sides. I run my palms along the smooth fabric of his T-shirt, feeling his muscular frame underneath.
Just when I worry he’s going to pull back, maybe change his mind, his lips meet mine in the softest kiss imaginable.
It’s short, only a few seconds, but entirely perfect.
Mason pulls back enough to see my eyes, and his fingers brush the skin at the nape of my neck. “Sweet dreams, Harper.”
And then he’s gone, and I’m left battling emotions that are at war with each other. I’m blissfully breathless, a touch giddy, and very, very anxious about the well-being of my heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY
An usher escortsme 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.
