Page 253 - The Love Hypothesis

Oh. Maybe, now that they had sex—good sex, Olive thought, amazing

sex, though who knew about Adam?—he needed his own space. Maybe he
wanted his own damn pillow.
She returned the empty glass and sat up. “I should move to my bed.”

He shook his head with an intensity that suggested that he didn’t want
her to go, not anywhere, not ever. His free hand closed tight around her

waist, as if to tether her to him.
Olive didn’t mind.

“You sure? I suspect I might be a cover hog.”
“It’s fine. I run warm.” He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.

“And according to someone, I look like I might snore.”
She gasped in mock outrage. “How dare they? Tell me who said that and
I will personally avenge you—” She yelped when he held the icy-cool glass

against her neck, and then dissolved into laughter, drawing up her knees and
trying to twist away from him. “I’m sorry—you don’t snore! You sleep like

a prince!”
“Damn right.” He set the glass on the nightstand, appeased, but Olive

remained curled up, cheeks flushed and breathing hard from fending him
off. He was smiling. With dimples, too. The same smile he’d smiled into

her neck earlier, against her skin, the one that had tickled her and made her
laugh.
“I’m sorry about the socks, by the way.” She winced. “I know it’s a

controversial topic.”
Adam looked down at the rainbow-colored material stretched around her

calves. “Socks are controversial?”
“Not socks per se. Just, keeping them on during sex?”

“Really?”
“Totally. At least according to the issue of Cosmopolitan we keep at

home to swat cockroaches.”
He shrugged, like a man who’d only ever read the New England Journal
of Medicine and maybe Truck-Pushing Digest. “Why would anyone care

one way or the other?”