The Love Hypothesis (Love Hypothesis #1)(67)

She had just got out of the bathroom, rehearsing her talk under her breath, when the door opened and someone—Adam, of course it was Adam—entered the room. He was holding his key card and typing something in his phone, but stopped as soon as he looked up and noticed Olive. His mouth opened, and—

That was it. It just stayed open.

“Hey.” Olive forced her face into a smile. Her heart was doing something weird in her chest. Beating a little too quickly. She should probably have it checked as soon as she got back home. One could never be too careful about cardiovascular health. “Hi.”

He snapped his mouth closed and cleared his throat. “You’re . . .” He swallowed and shifted on his feet. “Here.”

“Yep.” She nodded, still smiling. “Just arrived. My flight landed on time, surprisingly.”

Adam seemed a little slow. Maybe jet-lagged from his own flight, or perhaps last night he’d been out late with his famous scientist friends, or with the mysterious woman Holden had talked about. He just stared at Olive, silent for several moments, and when he spoke, it was only to say, “You look . . .”

She glanced down at her dress and heels, wondering if her eye makeup was already smudged. She’d put it on three whole minutes ago, so it was more than likely. “Professional?”

“That’s not what I . . .” Adam closed his eyes and shook his head, as if collecting himself. “But, yes. You do. How are you?”

“Good. Fine. I mean, I wish I were dead. But aside from that.”

He laughed silently and moved closer. “You’ll be okay.” She had thought sweaters were a good look for him, but only because she’d never seen him wear a blazer. He had a secret weapon all along, she thought, trying not to stare too hard. And now he’s unleashing it. Damn him.

“Agreed.” She pushed her hair back and smiled. “After I die.”

“You’re fine. You have a script. You memorized it. Your slides are good.”

“I think they were better before you made me change the PowerPoint background.”

“It was acid green.”

“I know. It made me happy.”

“It made me nauseous.”

“Mm. Anyway, thanks again for helping me figure it out.” And for answering the 139 questions I asked. Thank you for taking less than ten minutes to reply to my emails, every time, even when it was 5:30 a.m. and you misspelled “consensus,” which is unusual of you and makes me suspect that maybe you were still half asleep. “And for letting me crash with you.”

“No problem.”

She scratched the side of her nose. “I figured you were using that bed, so I put my stuff here, but if you . . .” She gestured confusedly at the room.

“No, that’s where I slept last night.”

“Okay.” She was not counting how many inches there were between the two beds. Definitely not. “So how’s the conference so far?”

“Same old. I was mostly at Harvard for a few meetings with Tom. I only got back for lunch.”

Olive’s stomach rumbled loudly at the mention of food.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I think I forgot to eat today.”

His eyebrows arched. “I didn’t think you capable.”

“Hey!” She glared at him. “The sustained levels of despair I’ve been engaging in for the past week require a staggering number of calories, in case you— What are you doing?”

Adam was leaning over his suitcase, rummaging for something that he held out to Olive.

“What is it?”

“Calories. To fuel your despair habits.”

“Oh.” She accepted it and then studied the protein bar in her hands, trying not to burst out crying. It was just food. Probably a snack he’d brought for the plane ride and ended up not eating. He didn’t need to despair, after all. He was Dr. Adam Carlsen. “Thanks. Are you . . .” The wrapping of the bar crinkled as she shifted it from one hand to another. “Are you still coming to my talk?”

“Of course. When is it exactly?”

“Today at four, room 278. Session three-b. The good news is that it partially overlaps with the keynote address, which means that hopefully only a handful of people will show up . . .”

His spine stiffened noticeably. Olive hesitated.

“Unless you were planning to go to the keynote address?”

Adam wet his lips. “I . . .”

Her eyes chose that precise moment to fall to the conference badge dangling from his neck.


Adam Carlsen, Ph.D.

Stanford University

Keynote Speaker



Her jaw dropped.

“Oh my God.” She looked up at him, wide-eyed, and . . . Oh God. At least he had the grace to look sheepish. “How did you not tell me that you are the keynote speaker?”

Adam scratched his jaw, oozing discomfort. “I didn’t think of it.”

“Oh my God,” she repeated.

To be fair, it was on her. The name of the keynote speaker was likely printed in font size 300 in the program, and all the promotional material, not to mention the conference app and the emails. Olive must have had her head very much up her butt to fail to notice.

“Adam.” She made to rub her eyes with her fingers, and then thought better of it. Damn makeup. “I can’t be fake-dating SBD’s keynote speaker.”