Page 228 - The Love Hypothesis

stuffing Tom’s throat. “If I were American, I’d totally run for Congress on

that platform.”
“Should we fake-marry, so you can get citizenship?”
Her heart stumbled. “Oh, yes. I think it’s time we fake-move-to-the-

next-level.”
“So”—he tapped at his phone—“I’m just googling ‘dead horse,’ plus the

title of whatever movie sounds good.”
“That’s what I usually do.” She padded across the room until she was

standing next to him. “What do you have?”
“This one’s about a linguistics professor who’s asked to help decipher an

alien—”
He glanced up from his phone, and immediately fell silent. His mouth
opened and then shut, and his eyes skittered to her thighs, her feet, her

unicorn knee socks, and quickly back to her face. No, not her face: some
point above her shoulder. He cleared his throat before saying, “Glad it . . .

fits.” He was looking at his phone again. His grip on the remote had
tightened.

It was a long beat before she realized that he was referring to his T-shirt.
“Oh, yeah.” She grinned. “Exactly my size, right?” It was so large that it

covered pretty much the same amount of skin her dress had, but was soft
and comfortable like an old shoe. “Maybe I won’t give it back.”
“It’s all yours.”

She rocked on her heels, and wondered if it would be okay if she sat
next to him now. It was only convenient, since they had to choose a movie

together. “Can I really sleep in it this week?”
“Of course. I’ll be gone tomorrow, anyway.”

“Oh.” She knew that, of course. She’d known the first time he’d told her,
a couple of weeks ago; she’d known this morning when she’d boarded the

plane in San Francisco, and she’d known mere hours ago, when she’d used
that precise piece of information to comfort herself that no matter how
awkward and stressful, her stay with Adam would at least be short-lived.

Except that it wasn’t awkward now. And it wasn’t stressful. Not nearly as