Chapter 11
Savannah
If there were a special circle of hell reserved for university faculty children, it would look exactly like the Wrighton University Benefactors Booster event.
Crystal chandeliers. Linen-draped tables. Tiny hors d’oeuvres that looked like they’d been assembled with tweezers, with my father working the room like a campaign trail politician, shaking hands with people he’d insulted in private not twelve hours earlier.
“Savannah, smile,” he murmured without looking at me, the kind of low, clipped tone that meant it wasn’t a suggestion.
I did. Because that’s what you did at these things — you smiled, you nodded, and you let the alumni and donors believe you were as thrilled to be here as they were to be writing six-figure checks.
I was halfway through calculating exactly how much longer I could last before slipping out when the crowd shifted near the entrance.
An excited murmur turned into a ringing crescendo of applause and cheering, and then there they were. A handful of the Alabama Lions football team. I hated that I craned my neck to see if he was with them.
“The football team is here?” I asked my dad, who was standing beside me. “You didn’t tell me they were coming.”
“Ugh, the football team,great,” my dad muttered beside me. “I should go greet Coach Sutherland and hisstars.”
I nodded, but he never saw me. My father had never understood why the room changed when athletes walked in. He understood the checks they brought. That was enough for him.
The very fact that the Lions won the championship was the reason this year’s Benefactors Booster was so well attended, and that the people here were going to be happily writing out those checks my father soughtbecauseof the guys who just walked in.
But the means of how he got the donations didn’t matter to Dad, as long as he got them. I was never sure if I respected his drive or pitied it.
I looked over toward the door, just as the crowd parted, and like Moses walking across the seafloor, with the waves rising on either side of him, never daring to touch, Dante Spence entered the reception room as if he were the god of football himself.
Except... not the Dante I knew. Not the guy in sneakers, jeans, and a hoodie, trash-talking in the library.ThisDante was in a tailored charcoal suit, Lions-blue tie knotted loosely at his throat, clean-shaven, sharp-eyed, and not a strand of hair out of place. His smile — the one I’d seen him use to annoy me — was now aimed at a semi-circle of donors, warm and confident, like he’d been born for this kind of room.
I almost didn’t recognize him, and I hated that the sight of him made my stomach flip. Because here, under the glow of the chandeliers, Dante Spence looked like a hero.
Anuntouchableone... and I wasn’t sure which version of him was real.
He spotted me before I could decide if ducking behind the large centerpiece was an option. His eyes flicked over me — quick, assessing — and that polished smile didn’t falter for a second. His gaze swept over me in one clean, clinical glance, and then he turned to the man at his side, who was speaking to him.
I looked down at my dress, wondering if he’d seen something he didn’t like. My dress was a deep cornflower-blue satin slip dress that skimmed my figure without clinging, the hem brushing mid-calf. The neckline was a clean V, elegant but not revealing, with thin straps that showed off my shoulders. Myshoes were a silver strappy sandal; the heel was modest, but even so, I wouldn’t be sprinting across campus anytime soon.
When I looked up, he was in front of me.
“Sav.” Dante said my name like we were old friends meeting by chance, not two people currently engaged in an ongoing war of snark and suspicious glares.
“Ten.” I matched his tone, though mine probably had more ice than charm.
My father reappeared at my side, the smile he reserved for star players who brought in funding blooming instantly. “Dante Spence, good to see you here tonight. I trust the postseason’s treating you well?”
“Better every day, Dean Cole.” Dante shook his hand, firm and respectful, like he hadn’t spent the last two weeks making my life difficult. “Savannah’s been a huge help to me, by the way. I appreciate her time.”
I almost choked on my sparkling apple juice — expensive, but still fake champagne for those under twenty-one. Help? That was one word for it.
My father’s gaze flicked to me, sharp and unreadable, before turning back to Dante. “Glad to hear it. We value commitment toacademicsas much as athletics here.”
Before I could think of sneaking away, Dante did the unthinkable — he offered me his arm.
“Would you excuse us, Dean? I’d like to steal her for a moment.”
My father hesitated, and I was sure he was going to refuse.
“Don’t worry, Dean Cole,” Dante murmured smoothly. “I’ll bring her back in one piece.”
