Page 56 - The Love Hypothesis

His hands halted, hovering half an inch or so above the keyboard. Then

he turned his chair toward her. “Olive.”
There was something about the way he talked. Maybe it was an accent,
maybe just a quality of his voice. Olive didn’t quite know what, but it was

there, in the way he said her name. Precise. Careful. Deep. Unlike anyone
else. Familiar—impossibly so.

“What did you say to her?” she asked, trying not to care about how
Adam Carlsen spoke. “The girl who ran out in tears?”

It took him a moment to remember that less than sixty seconds ago there
had been someone else in the office—someone whom he clearly made cry.

“I just gave her feedback on something she wrote.”
Olive nodded, silently thanking all the gods that he was not her adviser
and never would be, and studied her surroundings. He had a corner office,

of course. Two windows that together must total seventy thousand square
meters of glass, and so much light, just standing in the middle of the room

would cure twenty people’s seasonal depression. It made sense, what with
all the grant money he brought in, what with the prestige, that he’d been

given a nice space. Olive’s office, on the other hand, had no windows and
smelled funny, probably because she shared it with three other Ph.D.

students, even though it was meant to accommodate two at the most.
“I was going to email you. I talked to the dean earlier today,” Adam told
her, and she looked back at him.

He was gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. Olive pulled it back
and took a seat.

“About you.”
“Oh.” Olive’s stomach dropped. She’d much rather the dean didn’t know

about her existence. Then again, she’d also rather not be in this room with
Adam Carlsen, have the semester begin in a handful of days, have climate

change be a thing. And yet.
“Well, about us,” he amended. “And socialization regulations.”
“What did she say?”

“There’s nothing against you and me dating, since I’m not your adviser.”
A mix of panic and relief flooded through Olive.