I sipped my sparkling apple juice and reminded myself that Mrs. Whitmore’s assumption meant nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
So why had it given me a thrill of pleasure when she said it?
I slipped back into step beside my father, our little circuit of the room continuing as if we were a two-person parade float: smile, nod, shake hands, repeat. I’d mastered this choreography years ago, but tonight it felt harder to keep my head in the game.
Because every time I caught sight of Dante, he wasn’t the guy from the library, or the cocky pain in the ass who kept poking at me just to see me bristle. No, this Dante was polished. Magnetic. He laughed easily, leaned in just enough to make a donor feel like the only person in the room, but never too much to seem careless. His handshake was firm, his shoulders squared, and God help me, he looked every inch the golden boy they wanted him to be. I realized that the room was eating it up.
And more alarmingly,so was I.
He was mesmerizing. He looked like he’d mastered the art of schmoozing years ago. He made it look effortless. It wasn't —I’d attended enough of these events to know the effort behind that kind of ease. The lean-in that wasn’t too close. The laugh that came just late enough to seem genuine. I recognized the performance because I ran my own version of it every time I walked into one of these rooms.
Why the heck did he have to be so good ateverything? I sniffed as I looked away, fearful that he’d catch me staring, and no doubt twist it into something more in that way that he had of being charming and also a dick. I sipped my juice while entertaining the thought that he was probably crap in bed. A random, possibly uncalled-for thought, but warranted nonetheless. I mean, he couldn’t have itall; I refused to accept it.
Pulling myself together, I realized that I’d lost my dad on the last circuit, and now I stood with a forced smile for another board member who was approaching, and I would be made to listen to her explainingagainhow her great-uncle had once been the university’s treasurer. She didn’t disappoint. My nodding was automatic, but my eyes kept drifting to where Dante was holding court with three trustees and a group of students who looked starstruck just to be near him.
He wasn’t faking it, and that was the problem. He was good at this — too good.
I lifted my champagne flute and sipped my drink, my stomach tightening. Had I underestimated him? Looking at him now, cool, sharp, and blending so well, I doubted whether I was more practiced at putting on a fake show. It was clear that Dante was far more than a surly jock in danger of failing a class.
And maybe that made him twice as dangerous.
My father caught my attention and waved me over, saving me from having to stand between two board members. I made my excuses and joined him in the middle of his conversation, standing silently as he rambled on.
“And then, of course, the endowment doubled after the renovation.” My father’s voice droned on as he spoke to one of his more elusive donors.
I shifted my weight in my heels, wondering why I was here, and when I could leave, while I scanned the room again — only to catch Dante across the floor, that easy grin lighting up his face as he spoke. He laughed, the kind of laugh that made everyone else join in, and my chest tightened despite myself.
“Savannah, darling,” a syrupy voice cut in at my elbow. I turned to find Mrs. Harrington — not with her husband, thankfully — with her friend, Mrs. Elkins, who wore pearls the size of golf balls and had an eagle’s eye for gossip. I glanced across the room when I heard Dante’s laughter, cursing myself for looking, then turned my attention back to the women beside me. Mrs. Elkins fanned herself with the program, following my line of sight before I could redirect.
“My, my,” she said with a sly little smile. “You certainly seem taken with the Lions quarterback.”
Heat shot up my neck. “I — what?”
“You’ve been watching him all evening,” she sing-songed, pleased with herself. “Can’t blame you, of course. He does clean up nicely. But I never would’ve guessed the dean’s daughter and the quarterback. It’s so...cliché.”
Her words trailed just enough to hang in the air. Long enough for my father to turn my way, his eyes narrowing slightly as they cut to me. I hadn’t even noticed him circling back to join me.
“I wasn’t—” I started, but my father’s polite, razor-edged smile was already in place as he turned back to the two women.
“Dante Spence is one of our finest athletes,” he said smoothly, “and Savannah knows better than to let distractions interfere with her studies.”
My pulse skittered. His tone was calm, but the steel beneath it was meant for me alone.
“Unlike the charming leader of our football team,” my father continued, leaning in to both ladies as he shared ‘gossip.’ “Who, shall we say, needs more than a little encouragement to get through his coursework.”
Mrs. Elkins looked as if she’d been given a rare treat. “You’re tutoring our star quarterback, Savannah?”
I couldn’t exactly lie. “Just in one subject, he’s passing everything else well.”
“With you as his tutor, I’m sure he’s paying attention,” Mrs. Elkins said smoothly, causing my dad to shoot me a sharp glance.
“What subject?” Mrs. Harrington asked politely, pretending she didn’t see the way my dad was glancing between Dante and me.
“Educational Policy and Governance,” I mumbled. It didn’t feel right, discussing it so openly without his knowledge.
Mrs. Elkins fake-yawned. “Well, no wonder he needs extra help. A young, virile man like him,that’shardly going to keep his attention. I can see why he’s cozying up to you for help. I’d rather be on the practice field too.”
