Page 151 - The Love Hypothesis

in the squishy part of herself that she guarded most carefully. She looked at

Adam, and it swelled even larger, even stronger, even hotter.
You, she thought. You. You are just the most—
The worst—

The best—
Olive laughed, shaking her head.

“What?” he asked, puzzled.
“Nothing.” She grinned at him. “Nothing. Hey, you know what? You

and I should go get coffee. To celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”

“Everything! Your grant. My year at Harvard. How great our fake dating
is going.”
It was probably unfair of her to ask, since they were not due for fake-

dating coffee until tomorrow. But the previous Wednesday had lasted just a
few short minutes, and since Friday night, there had been about thirty times

when Olive had to forcibly remove her phone from her hands to avoid
texting him things he couldn’t possibly care about. He didn’t need to know

that he was right and the problem with her Western blot had been the
antibody. There was no way he’d have answered her if on Saturday at 10:00

p.m., when she’d been dying to know if he was in his office, she had sent
that Hey, what are you up to? message that she’d written and deleted twice.
And she was glad she’d ended up chickening out of forwarding him that

Onion article on sun-safety tips.
It was probably unfair of her to ask, and yet today was a momentous

day, and she found herself wanting to celebrate. With him.
He bit the inside of his cheek, looking pensive. “Would it be actual

coffee, or chamomile tea?”
“Depends. Will you go all moody on me?”

“I will if you get pumpkin stuff.”
She rolled her eyes. “You have no taste.” Her phone pinged with a
reminder. “Oh, we should go to Fluchella, too. Before coffee.”

A vertical line appeared between his brows. “I’m afraid to ask what that
is.”