“I thought you were from Texas,” I say to his back. He leads us over to the main building. The looming doors spit out groups of students who sidestep us. This is nothing like the halls of NYU or any other city college with tight-squeeze hallways and heavily used elevators. This is old-school with spiraling staircases and weathered bulletin boards. History hangs from every railing and rafter.
“My mom’s sister, Josephine, moved out to Texas when she got married, but then she had a miscarriage. It was right around the time my mom got pregnant with me, so my parents took my brother and sister, packed everything up, and moved out there to help my uncle and grandma take care of her and see what IVF treatments she could still pursue,” he says. “Texas is the only home I’ve ever known, and Josephine is like a second mom to me, but my parents talked about Wind River so often, I felt like it was a part of me.”
His boots make thumping echoes in the now-silent halls. Most classrooms have signs on them reading: QUIET PLEASE, TESTING IN PROGRESS. Just the thought of taking an academic test makes me twitchy. Thank God I’m not stuffed into a desk with a number two pencil in my hand right now. Scantrons are the work of Satan, I swear.
“This way,” Hector says.
He holds the door open for me to enter the administrative offices. The waiting area with its plethora of fake plants is empty and the secretary is out to lunch, judging by the unoccupied swivel chair. Hector raps lightly on a slightly ajar door to our right.
“Come on in,” a booming voice calls.
A White man with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and a Pierce Brosnan–level smolder leans back in a rickety red chair, legs crossed at the ankles. He’s adaddy(in the gay way, but probably also the biological way) if I ever did see one.
“Hector Martinez, always a pleasure,” he says. “And you are?”
He stands and meets my offer of a handshake. “Prince. Matthew Prince.” I guess the James Bond aura is influencing my speech.
“Ah, yes, Doug’s grandson. How could I forget. Please take a seat. Make yourself comfortable,” he says. “I’m Mark Graft, dean of Havensmith College. It’s my understanding you boys are spearheading the Holiday Charity Gala this year. Always nice to see young people stepping up to the plate and helping the community. Especially with this year’s cause benefitting small businesses. Wind River couldn’t run without them. How can I help?”
I go to offer an explanation, but in the chaos of our near-crash, Hector never briefed me on what exactly we’re doing here. I’m not used to taking a back seat in situations like this. Hard to believe, but I’m not one to ask for help. I like things done my way.
“Since Jack has come down with the flu, and Jack’s shop desperately needs that renovation, we were wondering if the Great Hall was available for the event,” Hector says.
Dean Graft gets on his computer and fiddles with a spreadsheet littered with electronic space reservations. “I can’t see why it wouldn’t be. This place will be deader than a graveyard starting next week. I only pop by on mornings like this to organize for the upcoming semester. And wrap my kids’ Christmas gifts where their prying eyes won’t find them.” He nods over to a pile of boxes in the corner. “Speaking of the kids, Natalia is back from her trip abroad. I’m sure she’d love to see you,” he says to Hector.
Hector freezes at the sound of the girl’s name, but gives no more hints as to who Natalia is or why she’dloveto see him. Instead of responding, he pulls up his own spreadsheet. It’s a full budget breakdown.
“Where did you get that?” I ask quietly as Dean Graft puts on a pair of reading glasses (making him sexier,kill me), and does a closer inspection of his computer.
“Lorna sent it to me via Jack,” he says.
“Why didn’t she send it to me?”
Hector lightly chuckles. “Maybe because you might be creative, but when it comes to budgeting, dude, you tend to overshoot your shot.” It’s an Island Gate jab that I don’t take lightly after nearly driving us to our untimely deaths.
“I can be frugal when I need to be,” I say with a huff.
“Says the guy in a thousand-dollar scarf.”
“This is Loro Piana.”
“I don’t care if it’s Mario and Luigi.” He reaches over to run his callused fingers over the loose knot by my neck. “It’s too much.”
Too much.I’ve heard that before.
I frown at him, still rattled from earlier, still certain he sees me as frivolously ridiculous. Even with his fingers inches from my face. Even as they caress the scarf in an almost intimate way, sending mini shock waves rolling across my collarbone.
“Sorry, I’m not used to us not bickering,” he says, slight and sincere, pulling his fingers away.
“You’re good,” I tell him. Because heisgood. Everything he does seems to prove Grandma right in that regard, and I don’t hate it.
When we look back, Dean Graft is staring at the two of us, having caught our quasi-moment. He clears his throat into his large, hairy fist.
“Looks like the space is free. I can print you the pricing options if you’d like.” He looks squarely at us. “Of course those won’t include holiday fees for putting security and maintenance staff on. Not to mention the last-minute fee for reservations made within two weeks of an event,” he says without any hint that he might be willing to waive those for a worthy cause.
Hector looks nervously at his spreadsheet again.
“It’s not a holiday,” I point out.
