Page 62 of Sugar and Spice
“No, I work for Mason, but when Clark represented Forever Now, I was still in his employ.”
“Mason stole you away?”
She laughs. “Sort of.”
We reach the elevator, and she hits the call button. I watch the lights make their rotation at the top, showing us the lift is headed down. “Does Clark resent you? It must be difficult to work so closely with him.”
The doors open, and Yvonne steps inside. “He can’t say much, considering I married his younger brother.” She must see the horrified look on my face, and she laughs. “They’re nothing alike.”
We end up on one of the top floors, and the first thing I notice is how few and far between the room doors are. Instead of numbers, they are named. We pass the Iris Suite and then the Agatha Suite a bit later. There are massive urns of flowers interspersed on small tables, along with subtle lighting to highlight them. We walk by a man who’s in a suit despite the late hour. He gives us a friendly smile, and his eyes linger over me as he moves on.
Yvonne grins once we pass him and leans close so he won’t overhear what she’s about to say. “Did you see the way he looked at you? He probably pegged you as a young actress or singer. All the socialites and business-minded are dressed to the nines—all to impress, but the celebrities often keep things casual because they’ve already proved their worth.”
I glance over my shoulder, but the man is already gone.
“Of course, their idea of casual is deceptive since their jeans usually cost several hundred dollars.”
Finally, we stop at the Celia Suite.
“This is you,” Yvonne says, producing a regular hotel card key—nothing fancy there.
I stop her before she opens the door. “When I told Mason I needed a separate room, I meant aroom. You know, the simple sort. This had to cost him a fortune.”
She gives me an understanding look. “Don’t worry about it. Mason doesn’t splurge like this often—not on rooms anyway.”
I desperately want to ask her what her definition of often is. How many girls has he whisked across the country?
Yvonne swings the door open and motions me in. We enter a small hall that opens into a living area. Like Mason’s room in the lodge, the suite has a single bedroom off to the side, but the living space is much larger. The color pallet is a blend of crisp whites, soft, winter blues, and coffee browns.
A vase of two dozen roses rests on the little breakfast table near the window. They’re gorgeous, with toffee-colored centers fading to white outer petals, just like cream before it’s mixed into coffee. When I cross the room to admire them, I spot a note.
Welcome to New York. Love, Mason.
I rest my hand on the table to steady myself. My stomach flutters with excitement and nerves.
“These are from Mason?” I look over my shoulder at Yvonne.
“He picked them out himself.” She gives me a pointed look. “Usually, when it comes to his sisters or mother, he leaves the ordering to me.”
Mason has sisters? He’s never mentioned them. Riley would probably know, but she was obsessive. I realize as I look around the gorgeous room, there’s a lot I don’t know about him.
I’m still gaping at the roses when there’s a knock at the door. Yvonne crosses the room, and then I hear his voice. He comes striding inside, coat over his arm and cheeks flushed like he was out in the cold longer than I was.
“What do you think?” he asks me, grinning.
Clark trails after him, looking like he wants to continue talking business even though it’s after midnight now.
My eyes flicker to Yvonne and Clark, and Mason immediately picks up on my hesitation. He turns to them. “Thank you both. We can take care of things from here.”
Clark gives me a look I don’t care for, but I ignore him. Mason ushers them out of the room, murmuring sincere thanks to Yvonne. All the way across the room, Clark badgers Mason to get to bed so he will be rested for tomorrow. Mason politely ignores him and shoves him out the door. The lock makes an audible click, and the room goes silent. We’re alone.
Maybe too alone.
My eyes wander over Mason, taking him in. He’s in dark jeans that fit just right and a blue T-shirt that brings out thegray in his eyes and the ash-brown of his hair. The fabric is fitted, and it skims over his muscular frame most appealingly. He looks like he threw the outfit together, but I would almost bet some personal shopper bought his entire wardrobe specifically to enhance his features.
“Thank you for the roses,” I murmur, feeling unusually self-conscious. “And this room is…” I hold my hands out and slowly turn. “I don’t have words for it.”
The city lights twinkle beyond the window. It’s a beautiful view.
