Page 227 - The Love Hypothesis

He stared at her flatly. “If you tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”

She chuckled. “Are you sure it’s okay? What will you wear?”
“Nothing.”
She must have been gaping at him a little too much, because he gave her

an amused look and shook his head.
“I’m kidding. I have a tee under my shirt.”

She nodded and hurried into the bathroom, making a point not to meet
his eyes.

Alone under the hot jet of the shower it was much harder to concentrate
on stale sushi and Adam’s uneven smile, and to forget why he’d ended up

allowing her to cling to him for three whole hours. What Tom had done to
her today was despicable, and she was going to have to report him. She was
going to have to tell Adam. She was going to have to do something. But

every time she tried to think about it rationally, she could hear his voice in
her head—mediocre and nice legs and useless and derivative and little sob

story—so loud that she was afraid her skull would shatter into pieces.
So she kept her shower as quick as possible, distracting herself by

reading the labels of Adam’s shampoo and body wash (something
hypoallergenic and pH-balanced that had her rolling her eyes) and drying

herself as fast as humanly possible. She took out her contacts, then stole a
bit of his toothpaste. Her gaze fell on his toothbrush; it was charcoal black,
down to the bristles, and she couldn’t help but giggle.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, he was sitting on the edge of the
bed, wearing plaid pajama pants and a white T-shirt. He was holding the TV

remote in one hand and his phone in the other, looking between the two
screens with a frown.

“You would.”
“Would what?” he asked absentmindedly.

“Have a black toothbrush.”
His mouth twitched. “You will be shocked to hear that there is no
Netflix category for movies in which horses don’t die.”

“An obscenity, isn’t it? It’s much needed.” She crumpled her too-short
dress into a ball and stuffed it inside her bag, fantasizing that she was