“Um, sure, I can send you some readings.” She should be relieved that he wasn’t leaning in for a kiss. “But I’m not going to be your tour guide through racism.”

“I have a degree in civil engineering from Princeton. I don’t think I need a tour guide. I realized that I do need some perspective, though.”

“Ever humble,” Liza said. Her hands were still on him. His broad shoulders rose and fell under her palms, the smooth, soft material of his sweater shifting slightly. She was trying not to notice his rapid pulse and instead tried to name this luxuriously soft material at her fingertips. And damn if it wasn’t the wool of some poor baby vicuña. She wanted to wrap her arms around his shoulders and flip the tag over. Placing the fabric was a small victory, but it wasn’t distracting her from the oceanic depth of his eyes. While her nether regions pulsed and her belly quivered, on the outside, she tried to radiate cool indifference.

“I have a hunch that the literature they gave me at Princeton and what they gave you at Howard was probably pretty different,” Dorsey said.

“I never told you I went to Howard.”

“You’re right. You only mention it every half hour on your radio show.”

“You listen to my show?” Liza touched her warm cheeks.

“I may have scanned past your station. I forget.” He was teasing her . . . and she liked it. What is this? “So it’s a date, then?” he asked. His voice cracked in the middle of his question.

The word seemed to snap Liza out of a haze. Remember how he treated WIC. That’s who he really is. Liza crossed her arms. “It’s a class.”

They emerged from the hallway with everyone watching Janae and David’s chemistry, and no one had even noticed they were gone—except for Chicho, who looked between them with a raised brow.

“The decorations,” Liza announced.

“Oh.” Granny clapped whimsically. Dorsey’s face had such a disapproving look on it that Granny eyed him nervously. “You didn’t eat your oxtail, D,” she said.

“Oh no, I wasn’t really hungry, and just Dorsey is fine.”

Liza grimaced. In her family, nicknames were a thing bestowed on you by impressed, mean, or nostalgic adults. It was not a negotiation of identity. You were “Hambone” or “Jughead” whether you liked it or not. And passing up any grandmother’s food was just signing a death certificate. Just eat the damn oxtail.

“How about Mr. Fitzgerald, then?” Granny said. “I wouldn’t want to get too familiar.”

“If that makes you more comfortable,” he replied. All Liza heard were the church bells tolling for the immediate death of Granny’s regard for him. Why did Liza want to throw the cooling plate of oxtails at his head?