Peyton narrows her eyes slightly. “Youareher—the girl the media’s going gaga over.”
I glance at Mason, unsure how to respond. Mason squeezes my arm with his. “It’s all right. Peyton’s cool.”
“Mum’s the word,” the singer promises.
And though IthinkI believe her, I’m not sure.
“Jason’s finally here,” Peyton says, craning her neck to look over my shoulder at the guitar playing musician whose music is a touch too angsty for my tastes.
I twist my head, looking over my shoulder. The blond-haired singer makes his way into the room, greeting people with a friendly wave. He seems nice enough, but I can’t get behind that hair. It’s in a man bun.
“Excuse me,” Peyton says, already making her way to Jason.
“What do you think?” Mason whispers in my ear, teasing. “Should I grow my hair out, sport a sweet style like Jason?”
I give him a withering look. “You should stick with what you have going.” Unable to help myself, I set my hand on his tuxedo-clad chest. “You clean up nice, Mr. Knight.”
“Yeah?” he steps a touch closer. “The tux is miserable, but if you like it, then I suppose it’s worth a little discomfort.”
I run my hand along the silky, soft fabric. “How could it be miserable? It must be custom-made, and it feels like it was woven from unicorn hair.”
Mason tips back his head and laughs. It’s a rich sound, and it makes me think of our kiss last night. I go warm, and I resist the urge to fan my face. If he studies me too closely, I’m sure he’ll realize where my mind has wandered.
“Mason,” someone calls from across the small apartment, beckoning us toward their group.
We mingle for a bit, and I rub elbows with people I never dreamed of meeting. Most of them are welcoming, some are already half-drunk, and a few are downright obnoxious. Mason shows me a glass case that contains a book with signatures from many of the famous people who have visited the room or performed at Radio City, and I gawk at the names for a few moments before someone else demands Mason’s attention.
“Are you ready to go?” Mason asks quietly after we’ve visited all the little clusters in the medium-sized room. I nod, and we say our goodbyes.
Mason’s stopped several times on our way out of the building, mostly by behind-the-scenes types who want to congratulate him on a successful performance.
When we’re nearing the exit, he asks, “Do you want to walk to Rockefeller Center to see the tree?”
My feet are killing me. The shoes are gorgeous, but wearing them for more than an hour is torture.
“How far is it?” I ask.
“Just around the back of the building.”
I want to see it—more, I want to see it with Mason. Talk about a memory. One day, a long time from now when I’m watching a Christmas movie scene set at Rockefeller Center with my grandchildren, I can tell them I saw the huge tree in person with a celebrity. Of course, they won’t have a clue who Mason is at that time, but still.
“All right,” I agree, and we head toward a back exit. Each step is excruciating.
Ow. Ow. Ow.Work through the pain.Ow. Ow. Ow.Darn gorgeous heels.
We step out the door and into the cold winter air.
“Will you be warm enough?” Mason asks as I drape my white, faux-fur wrap around my shoulders. He frowns as he eyes my bare legs. “Let’s take a car.”
Already shivering, I nod. “Aren’t you worried about being spotted anyway?”
He glances down at his tux. “Too conspicuous?”
“Not if you’re James Bond.”
Laughing, he hails a cab. The driver glances at us, but it’s obvious he doesn’t care who we are as long as we pay. We hurry inside the car.
“Rockefeller Center,” Mason says.
