“The college observes Christmas Eve as a holiday, and it’s the evening before, so it rolls in,” he says, logic not landing.
“Seems like a bit of a stretch,” I venture. Calling him out with the hope that it will throw him off his game.
He grimaces. “By all means, you can seek other accommodations at this late stage if you wish. I hear the inn has cleared out its storage shed. Might be worth a look.”
I raise an eyebrow in defeat. “A price guide would be great,” I say with a flashy smile.
Dean Graft goes out into the main waiting area where the robotic sound of the printer warming up becomes an added instrument in “Holly Jolly Christmas.”
“Was kind of hoping he’d give it to us for free,” Hector whispers. “We’re on a tight budget as it is. When Jack does it, he hosts it in the basement of his record shop. They used to do concerts there, so it holds a lot of people. With the right lighting and tables, it’s actually pretty fancy.”
Thinking on my feet, like I did with the eggnog during the cookie challenge, I do a quick Google search of Havensmith. I want to see how much it’s struggling as a private institution near no major city with no serious accolades afforded to it. It doesn’t take too much digging to find the dirt I need as ammunition.
Dean Graft comes back with a printout, a few lines highlighted. The prices are reasonable to me, but staggering to Hector. I can tell by the way he sways back in his chair. I take a deep breath and boot up my best boss bitch attitude.
“Dean Graft, do you normally attend the annual gala?” I ask.
He looks surprised. “Of course. This town means the world to me.” His sentiment sounds as hollow as a Christmas ornament. “My younger kids go to the public schools. My wife is a nurse at the local hospital. Anything to give back.”
“And I’m sure the success of this school is of the utmost importance to you, yes?” Dad taught me that asking intimidating, big-picture questions in a negotiation always gets you a leg up. It also makes the person you’re talking to think the thing you want them to do was their idea all along, leading to an easier agreement. Dean Graft just nods. “Well, unfortunately, we’re on a shoestring budget this year.”
“I can’t imagine a Prince having a shoestring budget.” He laughs. I cringe, but before he catches it, I lean back in my chair like this means nothing to me. In a way, it doesn’t, but he doesn’t need to know that. I slowly cross one leg over the other.
“Look, we’re facing some hard times right now with the last-minute leadership change. Is there perhaps a nonmonetary arrangement we could make to get the Great Hall?” I ask.
The pads of his fingers come together in a steeple. “I’m not sure what that would entail,” Dean Graft says. “Policies are policy for a reason.”
Hector is shooting me uneasy glances. I ignore him and force my way forward.
“Listen, Dean. Can I call you Dean? Let me level with you. A simple search shows you’re seeing low enrollment numbers and rising acceptance rates,” I say. “How do you think those would change if I could ensure a visit and a guest lecture from my mother in the coming semester? Don’t you think that would make a pretty great photo op for your website?”
Dean Graft’s ears perk up. The dollar signs flash over his head. I know men like him. I’ve dealt with them all my life in Dad’s rotating collection of colleagues. The bottom line is more important to him than anything else. He may purport family tradition and charitable acts, but at the end of the day, his business success is what helps him sleep at night.
“That’s a very tempting offer. She’d do it? Sans her usual fee?” he asks. Oh, so nowhe’sthe one strapped about money. I’ve got him right where I want him.
“She may even deliver the graduation address if I ask nicely.” My eyelashes flutter a mile a minute.
“I think that can be arranged,” he says with all the smarmy smugness I expected.
I reach across the desk for another handshake. “We’ll be in touch,” I say, making it seem as if this is my office andIcalledhiminto this meeting. I can see the confusion on his face, so I nod for Hector to follow me out before he changes his mind.
In the hallway, Hector turns to me. “Can you really make that happen? Will your mom agree to that?”
“She stopped doing the college circuit when her TV show won an Emmy,” I say. “But it got us the Great Hall, didn’t it?”
That damn charming smirk creeps up on his lips again. I force myself to look away for fear I might give those lips a victory kiss. Not because they’rehislips, per se, but because they’re the closest lips to mine in this moment, and my lips have felt very lonely lately. That’s all.
“So, you lied?” he asks.
“See you in hell, I guess,” I say with a shrug. Though lying isn’t a sin in my book. In Dad’sactualbook, it’s a business strategy. “Not like he’ll know any better before the gala. It’s too close. Mom’s got her publisher waiting with bated breath for her next project while they figure out this musical nonsense. The dean will never be able to get through to her people. I’ll just yes him to death when he asks.”
Hector says, “That’s smart. I have to hand it to you, dude.” He’s the Cheshire cat of compliments—popping up out of nowhere to spring them on me while wearing a floaty, full-faced grin. It’s endearing.
“Thank you.” I revel in the first moment where I’m not being chastised for another stupid mistake. Doing something right feels good for a change. “Now, I want to see this Great Hall I sold my mom’s soul for,” I add, before this awestruck Hector disappears into the mist again.
With an agreeable flourish, Hector ushers me down a corridor, giving major tour-guide vibes, all the while pointing out classrooms he’s taken seminars in.
“Here we are,” he chirps, minutes later.
