The fact that he had been correct about how to handle Professor Martinez when you were a wayward student in need of mercy was strangely, sharply satisfying. “Why?”

“Because she shows up to class prepared and has never asked for anything before. Because I see her working at the campus Starbucks all the time, and if that’s only one job of two, that’s a little sobering.”

“Why did that boy get an extension, too? He sounded like his problem was merely laziness. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a pushover.”

“I have forty-seven American Lit papers to grade in the next week, so it doesn’t really matter to me when they come in. And frankly, it’s not worth the bad reviews on my student evaluations.” She put away her mirror and took out her phone and looked at it for a long moment. She seemed to be reading something.

He took the opportunity to contemplate the concept of Dani receiving bad reviews. It was difficult to imagine. Along with her unexpectedly blasé response to the boy’s request, it created a disturbance in the mental picture Max had of her, a surprising—and intriguing—lashing of paint across an image he’d thought complete.

“You ready?” She stood and reached for her coat, and his appreciation of her dress—and her lips, and her everything—grew even less intellectual.

“You want to give me any background on the Picasso fanboy? Did you say his name was Vince?” he asked while he tried not to be too overt about his escalating appreciation. “Or about the new girlfriend?”

“Neither of them have any inner life to speak of, so nah.” She flashed him a little smile. It was pleasingly conspiratorial. “I’m sure you—” Her speech came to an abrupt halt as he rose from her guest chair. She froze with one arm in her coat and the other out. No part of her moved except her eyes, which traveled rapidly up and down his body.

He looked down at himself. “What? Not suitably dukeish casual?” The New York trip was a short one, so he only had the one suit with him. He’d almost worn it without a tie, but in the end he hadn’t been able to make himself do it. If a man was wearing a suit, he should wear a suit—all its pieces, not some haphazard, choose-your-own-adventure version of it.

“It was a pun on business casual,” she said.

“I understood that. Is this not business casual? You Americans with your dress codes. You put words together that either don’t mean anything or contradict each other and call it a dress code. I could have worn my frock coat complete with ceremonial sword.”

She cracked a grin, a full, unreserved one, and he was unbecomingly thrilled to have been its source.

“You look fine,” she said. “Let’s go.”