He watches her thread his scarf through her fingers, brain stuck in a skipping record rut where the only thing he can actually process for a second is Tuh-tuh-tuh and so on. He finally rallies his sangfroid and passes on one of those Rick Castle grins. 'Kind that used to charm nuns.

"Off the record?" he asks, consulting the ceiling. "Not at all." A beat. "A little."