“Oh my God.” Malcolm walked back to her, delighted. “Ol, this is amazing! I thought none of the researchers you contacted had gotten back to you?”
“Not for the longest time. But now Benton has, and you know how famous and well-known he is. He probably has more research funds than I could ever dream of. It would be—”
“Fantastic. It would really be fantastic. Ol. I am so proud of you.” Malcolm took her hands in his. His face-splitting grin slowly gentled. “And your mom would be so proud, too.”
Olive looked away, blinking rapidly. She didn’t want to cry, not tonight. “Nothing is set in stone. I’ll have to persuade him. It will involve quite a bit of politicking and going through the whole ‘pitch me your research’ bit. Which as you know is not my forte. It might still not work out—”
“It will work out.”
Right. Yes. She needed to be optimistic. She nodded, attempting a smile.
“But even if it didn’t . . . she would still be proud.”
Olive nodded again. When a single tear managed to slide down her cheek, she decided to let it be.
Forty-five minutes later, she and Malcolm sat on their minuscule couch, arms pressed together, watching reruns of American Ninja Warrior while they ate a very undersalted veggie casserole.
Chapter Four
HYPOTHESIS: Adam Carlsen and I have absolutely nothing in common, and having coffee with him will be twice as painful as a root canal. Without anesthesia.
Olive arrived to the first fake-dating Wednesday late and in the foulest of moods, after a morning spent growling at her cheap, knockoff reagents for not dissolving, then not precipitating, then not sonicating, then not being enough for her to run her entire assay.
She paused outside the coffee shop’s door and took a deep breath. She needed a better lab if she wanted to produce decent science. Better equipment. Better reagents. Better bacteria cultures. Better everything. Next week, when Tom Benton arrived, she had to be on top of her game. She needed to prepare her spiel, not waste time on a coffee she didn’t particularly want, with a person she most definitely didn’t want to talk to, halfway through her experimental protocol.
Ugh.
When she stepped inside the café, Adam was already there, wearing a black Henley that looked like it was ideated, designed, and produced specifically with the upper half of his body in mind. Olive was momentarily bemused, not so much that his clothes fit him well, but that she’d noticed what someone was wearing to begin with. It was not like her. She’d been seeing Adam traipse around the biology building for the better part of two years, after all, not to mention that in the past couple of weeks they’d spoken an inordinate amount of times. They had even kissed, if one counted what had happened on The Night as a proper kiss. It was dizzying and a little unsettling, the realization that sank into her as they got in line to order their coffee.
Adam Carlsen was handsome.
Adam Carlsen, with his long nose and wavy hair, with his full lips and angular face that shouldn’t have fit together but somehow did, was really, really, really handsome. Olive had no clue why it hadn’t registered before, or why what made her realize it was him putting on a plain black shirt.
She willed herself to stare ahead at the drink menu instead of his chest. In the coffee shop, there were a total of three biology grad students, one pharmacology postdoc, and one undergraduate research assistant eyeing them. Perfect.
“So. How are you?” she asked, because it was the thing to do.
“Fine. You?”
“Fine.”
It occurred to Olive that maybe she hadn’t thought this through as thoroughly as she should have. Because being seen together might have been their goal, but standing next to each other in silence was not going to fool anyone into thinking that they were blissfully dating. And Adam was . . . well. He seemed unlikely to initiate any kind of conversation.
“So.” Olive shifted her weight to the balls of her feet a couple of times. “What’s your favorite color?”
He looked at her, confused. “What?”
“Your favorite color.”
“My favorite color?
”
“Yep.”
There was a crease between his eyes. “I—don’t know?”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”