“Hi.” Dean was waiting in the foyer, a smile creasing his face.
My heart gave a leap at the sight of him. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt open at the collar to reveal the column of his throat. For an instant, I wondered what it would feel like to press my lips against his taut skin.
“Hi,” I replied somewhat breathlessly. I extended the potted plant I’d brought him. “It’s called a peace lily. It has white flowers that bloom in the spring.”
“This is for me?” He took the plant with a bemused look as we walked out to the car.
“Yeah. It’s really easy to care for. Just water it regularly, about once a week, and make sure it gets some sunlight. The leaves will start to droop if it needs water.”
“I’ll just call you if I need plant advice.” He shifted the pot to one arm and opened the passenger side door for me. “Thanks. No one’s ever given me a plant before.”
He set the plant on the floor of the backseat and got behind the wheel, then drove to a colonial-style building located on the west side of town. I followed him into his apartment on the third floor. Despite the ideal location, the furnishings were utilitarian and spare with a chipped Formica table, plastic chairs, and a plaid sofa.
I approached a wall of large windows that overlooked a quiet, tree-lined park. The evening light spilled over the expanse of grass and illuminated a playground in the distance.
“Nice place,” I remarked.
“Comes with the job. Should I put the plant by the windows?”
“Sure, but it shouldn’t get too much sunlight.” I took the plant from him and set it on the table. “Are you going to decorate at all?”
“Hadn’t intended to, no.” He pulled the cork on a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.
“You should. Hang some pictures, get some curtains, a few more plants. Maybe a couple of throw rugs.”
“I don’t need that kind of stuff,” Dean said. “I’ll only be here until the end of spring semester.”
A strange feeling uncurled in my chest at the reminder that his stay in Madison was temporary. He seemed to realize it too, because a faint consternation darkened his expression.
“So how do you like Madison?” I asked in an effort to dispel the sudden strain.
“It’s great. Lots to do, good students.” He handed me a glass, then slid his gaze over me. “And there’s this really pretty girl I like.”
Pleasure heated me from the inside out. I was wearing a loose black skirt and a scoop-necked white T-shirt that was apparently flattering, given the way Dean’s eyes lingered on the swells of my breasts. My nipples budded in response, and I knew he’d be able to see the hard peaks through the thin cotton of my shirt and bra.
Our gazes met again with a spark. I turned away from him.
“How did you get the UW position?” I asked, going for a curious-and-friendly tone.
“Usual application procedure. I didn’t work at all last year, so I wasn’t sure they’d make an offer, but they did.”
“Why didn’t you work?”
“I was writing a book, and my grandfather was sick, so…” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. “Because of that gap, I want to take a few more postdoc positions before settling into something permanent. Good diversification too.”
“Spoken like a true professor.” I curled up on the sofa and took a sip of the wine, which was probably a fancy, expensive vintage—not that I could tell the difference. “And where do you want to end up?”
“With whoever makes the right offer,” Dean said.
“What’s the right offer?”
“A university with plenty of funding, tenure, research opportunities. Either a place that already has a solid Medieval Studies program, or an institution that wants to create one. There’ve been a few openings in recent months, but none I was interested in.”
“So you’re still waiting for the right one to come along?”
“The right one is always worth waiting for.” He winked at me.
My face heated with a flush of pleasure. Dean settled on the other end of the sofa, the lines of his body relaxed.
I let my gaze sweep over him, appreciating the way his shirt stretched over his muscular chest, the jeans molding to his long legs. As much as I liked the way he looked in his tailored suits and ties, I loved the way casual clothes fit him to perfection, loved the rumpled look of his hair and stubbled jaw.
“What about you, Olivia Winter?” he asked. “What are you going to do with your life?”
“I don’t know yet,” I answered honestly. “I’m hoping for library work or maybe something with a publishing company.”
“And where do you want to end up?” Dean asked.
“Wherever I feel at home.” The confession slipped from my mouth before I realized it was out. I ducked my head to take a sip of wine, embarrassed by the Pollyanna nature of the remark. “So, uh, what’s for dinner?”
I felt his gaze on me, intent and curious, then he unfolded himself from the sofa and stood. “Baked eel, pickled cabbage, and parsnip pie. Recipes from a medieval cookbook.”