Chapter 20
Savannah
What the actual hell?
Me: Are you spying on me?
“Skulking?” I muttered, my thumbs flying across the screen. “Who says ‘skulking’?”
“I do.”
I looked up and saw him standing just inside the door.
He’d changed clothes. He was in jeans, a white T-shirt, and a light gray hooded sweater that draped open and had no buttons or zipper that I could see.
“You changed?” How long had I been in here? I glanced at my watch. Hours had passed. Oh . . . okay.
“So John . . . is he a friend of yours?” Dante’s voice slid through the air like smoke, low and unamused.
I whipped my head up at his tone. He was leaning against the doorframe, all casual in his hoodie and jeans, but his eyes were sharp, locked on mine.
“He’s a professor,” I said, hating how breathless I sounded. “You were there on Saturday, he told you to call him John. I just call him ‘professor.’”
He tipped his chin toward the path where Yates had just gone. “Didn’t look like he thinks you’re his student.”
“He’s my professor.”
“Right.” He dragged it out like it was more than a one-syllable word. His mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Seemed like he wanted more than updates on stained glass.”
“Don’t be an ass.” I realized what he said. “Wait . . . were you listening?”
“The door was open.”
I blinked. “So you were listening.”
“You’ve fucked him?”
My jaw dropped. “No!” I couldn’t believe he asked me that. “What is wrong with you?”
“Me? Not much,” Dante said easily, pushing off the frame and stepping inside, too big, too close. His gaze flicked over my project, then back to me.
It was too late to hide it. I gave a wordless nod of thanks, my mind still stuck on his last question.
“What is it?” he asked, walking around it. “It looks like a windmill.” He glanced over at me. “Have I just insulted you?”
“At which point?” I muttered. “When you kissed me and ran earlier, when you accused me of sleeping with a professor, or when you asked if my art piece was a windmill?”
Dante laughed. “You always get worked up over the silliest things.” He stood back from my project. “I like it.”
“Good for you,” I grumbled. “I’ve decided I don’t like you.”
“Bullshit.” He moved closer to me. “I didn’t kiss you and run, I walked out of here very calmly after I saw you having a freak-out over the fact you’d kissed me .
. . and copped a feel,” he added with a wink.
He shrugged carelessly when I didn’t speak.
“You needed time. I gave you some time.” He looked around the shed.
“So you tutor, you attend every event your father makes you, and you do this as well as your own homework.” He raised an eyebrow in question, and I nodded confirmation. “You work too hard.”
“What?” I was not keeping up with this conversation at all.
“I’m saying you work too hard.” Dante cocked his head to the side. “Who else do you tutor? Or is it just me?”
“You are running routes too fast for me to keep up, Ten.” I ran my fingers through the ends of my ponytail. “Um, I tutor other people besides you.”
“Stop that.”
My fingers stopped moving automatically. “Stop—”
“Stop tutoring other people. I don’t like sharing what’s mine.” He glanced over his shoulder. “With anyone,” he rumbled darkly.
“You’re an arrogant dick,” I snapped at him. “I am not yours, asshole. You are so ridiculously egotistical.”
He grinned at me. “I was right, you need to breathe. Which is why you need to come out with me tonight.”
My jaw dropped. I genuinely couldn’t keep up with this guy. “Excuse me?”
“Party. It’s just a couple of beers, a few teammates. Nothing crazy.” He shrugged like it was the most normal thing in the world to invite the dean’s daughter to a team party. The only parties I attended were ones hosted by the college itself. “Come with me.”
I laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “Are you insane? Do you want me murdered by my father?” Wasn’t he in trouble with his team? “Aren’t you on, like, probation or something because of the fight on Saturday?”
“Probation? No.” He gave me an unreadable look. “Anyways, this is team building, my coaches would approve.”
“Would they?” I challenged him. “Because my dad will not approve if I go to a party with you.”
“Relax, Sav.” His grin finally broke through, reckless and dazzling. “What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.”
And the worst part was . . . I could already feel myself considering it.
“Are you allowed to drink on those painkillers?” I asked him, not prepared for the way his jaw tightened. “What? Did I say something?”
“No.” He smiled at me, but even I knew it was forced. “I’m allowed to drink,” he said with an eye roll and a small laugh. “Though I don’t really drink a lot. Five a.m. starts aren’t a friend of beer.” His shoulders dropped a little. “So . . . you coming with me?”
“You’re not going to get me in trouble?”
“Will you relax?” His fingers brushed against my cheek as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, light but deliberate, like he knew exactly how much it would rattle me. “I give you permission to stop worrying. Come with me.”
My pulse stuttered. “You don’t get to give me permission.”
“Don’t I?” His smile curved, dangerous in its softness. “But you like the idea more than you want to admit.”
I folded my arms, desperate to put up some kind of shield. “I have class tomorrow.” I’d already missed two this afternoon.
“Classes will still be there. You know what won’t?” He leaned in just enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. “A night where you forget you’re the dean’s daughter and just . . . live a little.”
I hated that he was right. I hated even more that I wanted to say yes. “Dante . . .” My voice cracked, a warning wrapped in a plea.
“Savannah,” he countered, quiet, confident, his gaze locked on mine. “Stop telling yourself no when you want to say yes.”
Damn him, because I did want to. More than was reasonable. More than was smart. I swallowed, pulse tripping over itself. “Fine. But if this ends with trouble, I’m blaming you.”
His grin broke wide and triumphant, like he’d just scored the game-winning touchdown. “Deal.”
I shook my head, exhaling a laugh that sounded too shaky to be convincing. “I need to go home first.”
“Change into something—” his eyes swept over me with a slow appraisal that sent heat straight to my cheeks — “more comfortable . . . more you.”
“I know you’re not trying to tell me what to wear, Dante Spence,” I snapped, but my blush betrayed me.
He only chuckled, backing away with that infuriating ease because he hadn’t doubted I’d say yes. That was the most infuriating part. “I’ll swing by and pick you up at seven. Don’t flake, Sav.”
As if I even could.
* * *
The door to my dorm clicked shut behind me, and I leaned against it, breath catching like I’d just sprinted a mile.
What the hell was I doing? After my conversation with my dad this morning, and now here I was, doing the exact thing he warned me not to.
I dropped my bag on the bed and crossed to the wardrobe crammed in the corner. My fingers hovered over the row of hangers, every sensible blouse and shift dress a reflection of my father’s expectations, not mine.
I shimmied out of my jeans and peeled off my sweater, tossing it onto the bed with more force than necessary. My reflection in the mirror looked back at me, pale and stubborn, like she was waiting for me to cave.
Not tonight.
I reached past the neat dresses to the back corner, where I shoved things Dad frowned at.
My jeans were faded, soft, and torn from use, paired with a fitted black tee with a deep V and a hem that skimmed the top of my jeans.
My leather jacket was non-negotiable — a biker jacket like my boots, and still no bike in sight.
I wondered if Dante drove one of those enormous, fuck-off, environment-killing trucks.
Pulling on my clothes felt like shrugging into another version of myself — one who said yes to football parties — but one who I didn’t look away from when I met her stare in the mirror.
I checked my phone. No text yet. Of course not. He wouldn’t follow up. He expected me to show. I swiped mascara over my lashes and put on pale, tinted lip gloss.
I would not make an extra effort just for him. His ego was big enough.
I tugged on my boots, brushed my hair out, running the hairdryer over it where the rain had caught it, despaired of the inevitable frizz, smoothed it back into a sleek ponytail, and gave the mirror a once-over. Not polished. Not proper. But me.
The flutter in my stomach wasn’t nerves. It was anticipation.
My phone buzzed against the desk, and I snatched it up like it might disappear before I could read it.
QB10: I’m right outside. Don’t make me come in and face your RA
He came for me. My heart gave one traitorous lurch. I shouldn’t be smiling like an idiot over that fact.
I typed back quickly.
Me: Give me two minutes. Meet me at the back!
Another buzz.
QB10: One. I’ll start counting.
I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt, but the stupid smile still tugging at my lips betrayed me. Jacket zipped, boots laced, I shoved my phone into my pocket and grabbed my keys.
When I opened the door, light from under Bev’s door told me she was home. I left without saying anything, feeling guilty for doing so, but not wanting to have to explain what I was doing. The hallway was quiet, every shadow suddenly conspiring to make this feel like sneaking out.
I ran swiftly down the back stairs and, waiting for me beyond that door, was Dante.
No entourage, no spotlight, no quarterback swagger — just him, tall and broad, leaning casually against the railing like he belonged there.
A black umbrella rested over his shoulder, catching the light from the streetlight, rain pattering softly against it.
I pushed open the door, laughing when he moved forward to cover me.
“This is a service I don’t usually get,” I told him.
“Two minutes?” he said, smirking. “You took three. Sloppy timing, Sav.”
My breath puffed out in the cold, sharp enough to sting. “You’re unbelievable.”
“True,” he said easily, stepping forward and tilting the umbrella so it covered me too. “But I’m also dry. You’re welcome.”
I should have said something smart. Something funny. Instead, I found myself under the stupid umbrella, close enough to smell the clean scent of rain clinging to him.
That was the problem with Dante Spence — he made standing in the dark, in the rain, in the middle of a questionable decision feel like the only place I wanted to be.
“Better,” he murmured, shifting just enough so I had more coverage. The movement brought him closer — his shoulder brushing mine, his hand steady on the handle above us.
I kept my eyes forward. “You could’ve brought a car.”
“And miss this?” His voice dipped low, teasing, but there was something behind it. “No chance.”
The rain tapped against the nylon like a heartbeat, steady and unrelenting. Every drop seemed to amplify the silence between us.
“You’re ridiculous,” I said finally, wrapping my arms around myself.
“And yet,” Dante said, glancing down at me, his mouth curving in a half smile that looked too good in the shadows, “you’re still here.”
I hated how my pulse jumped at that. Hated it more when he tilted the umbrella again, so carefully angled that he was the one getting wet at the edge while I stayed dry.
“You don’t make sense,” I muttered.
“Neither do you, Sav.” His eyes caught mine in the dim light, and for one fragile second, the umbrella felt like a wall shutting us off from the rest of the world.
Just the two of us in our own storm.
I looked up at him, soaking in his cool blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, straight jaw, and kissable lips, and realized maybe the most dangerous part wasn’t who he was or how he looked, but rather how easily I could forget why I was supposed to stay away.
His gaze dipped to my mouth, just once, and my stomach bottomed out. I could’ve stepped into the rain and away from him, but instead I stood still as stone.
When he leaned in, it wasn’t the kind of kiss that crashed through walls. It was lighter than air, soft and testing, his lips brushing mine in the barest touch — like he was giving me every chance to pull away.
I didn’t.
The kiss lingered just long enough to feel like it rewrote every line I’d drawn in the sand. Then he pulled back, eyes searching mine with something I didn’t dare name.
The rain kept falling, but under the umbrella, the world had gone dangerously still.