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"More boy bands?"

"Does it count if they're boys in a band?"

"Pretty sure that's the definition."

"Then yep," she says, as I hand her the soup. "But hey, at least it's still not Bieber."

"Thank God," I say, taking the phone from her and again plugging it in. "I'd hate to have to divorce you."

"You'd divorce me?"

"Or worse."

"Miss Vitale? A word?"

It's still strange to me, going by that last name. So strange I don't respond to it sometimes, because it doesn't click it's me they want until they say it again.

"Miss Vitale?"

Glancing up, stalling the packing up of my backpack, I look at Rowan as he stands at the end of the aisle, beside my desk. Most of my classmates have already jetted out of here, but I'm running a little behind the crowd today.

Like an idiot, I fell asleep in class.

I dozed right through his entire lecture, missing all of it. I remember siting down and well... here I am, an hour later, getting ready to leave again.

Oops.

I clear my throat. "It's Mrs."

That takes him aback. "Excuse me?"

"There's a Mister, so I'm not a Miss."

"Oh. You're married."

"Yeah."

He seems genuinely surprised by that tidbit.

Must not have read my file.

Thank God.

"Oh, well, Mrs. Vitale, I was hoping I could have a word with you."

I want to say no, because having a word with me leads to more words, which leads to me saying words back, and judging by how the last conversation I had with a professor in this room ended up being one of his last, I'm going to go out on a limb and say having a word with me probably isn't wise. Another thing he'd know if he read my file. But how can I explain that without actually explaining anything?

I don't know.

I can't.

So I merely shrug and continue packing up my things to leave, figuring if he wants to have a word with me, there's really nothing I can do to stop him.

"I just wanted to tell you that I graded your Napoleon paper."

"Oh?" Putting on my backpack, I eye him warily, feeling this strange sense of déjà vu about this conversation. "Let me guess... unimaginative? Mediocre? Pretentious?"

That's what Professor Santino always said about my papers.

His brow furrows as he pulls the paper out of a folder he's carrying, holding it out to me. "I actually found it to be refreshing."

That word stalls me for a moment. Refreshing. I take the paper from him, glancing at it, seeing the red A+ written on the top of it.

Whoa.

"Thanks," I say, unsure what I'm supposed to say in this situation. "I wasn't sure..."

"Most people were literal about the assignment," he says, like he knows where I'm going with what I'm saying. "But you explored the concept deeper, and it's appreciated. I know history, to most people, is rather boring, so it's refreshing to have a student actually attempt to analyze things. That's how we learn from history, so we don't find ourselves repeating it... if you know what I mean."

"Yeah..." I know exactly what he means. "Thanks again."

He smiles kindly. "I should be thanking you."

"Well... you're welcome, I guess," I say with a laugh, turning to leave. He's right beside me, walking along with me. "I don't really have a good track record when it comes to writing analytical essays. I sort of bombed my first philosophy class because of it."

"Daniel Santino's class?"

"Uh... yeah. That's the one."

"I never met the guy, but I heard he could be quite difficult."

Difficult. Hell of an understatement.

"I wasn't exactly his favorite person," I tell him as we head outside. "We had some issues, so that probably had something to do with it, too."

"Probably," he agrees. "Because I doubt your essays did you in, especially if they were anything like this."

Reaching over, he shakes the paper I'm holding onto, giving me another smile before walking away. I stand there, in front of the building, watching him.

Weird.

"Friend of yours?"

I jump at the unexpected voice behind me... right behind me. So damn close I can practically feel the warm breath against my neck. Swinging around, I look at Naz. "Oh, hey! What are you doing here?"

"Came to see you," he says casually before motioning down the street, in the direction Rowan jetted off to, repeating his question. "Friend of yours?"

"Rowan's my history professor, actually."

"Huh. On a first name basis with a professor, are we? And what exactly did Rowan want?"

"He was just talking to me about my paper."

I shake it in his face, showing off the fat, red A+ on top of it. Naz snatches it from my hand, eyes glossing over the paper. "You wrote down exactly what I said."

"Yep," I say, absolutely no shame.

He laughs, handing it back. "It's nice to know I've still got it."

Taking my bag off, I fold up my paper and shove it in. I try to put the bag back on then, but Naz grabs a hold of it, taking it from me.

"I can carry my own stuff, you know."

"Nonsense."

Nonsense.

That's his response.

I almost take offense to it.

Reaching over, I snatch my bag back, ignoring him as I put it on.

Nonsense, my ass.

He laughs again, reaching for me, pulling me toward him. "I'm glad to see you're feeling better."

I roll my eyes at that.

I was feeling queasy earlier, and I still feel like I could sleep for a damn year straight, but at least I haven't thrown up today. Knock on wood.

"So do you have any classes this afternoon?"

"Math... English..." I eye him warily. He knows my schedule. He had it memorized before me. "Why?"

"Thought we could spend some time together this afternoon," he says, "if you weren't too busy."

I'm equal parts flattered and suspicious. I love when he wants to spend time with me, but I'm not an idiot. I know when Naz is up to something.

I have enough practice at this point to tell it.

"Never too busy for you. Do you want to grab some lunch or something? Hang out? Maybe take a walk?"

"A walk is perfect."

Yep, definitely up to something.

We don't take walks.