The Love Hypothesis (Love Hypothesis #1)(75)

“I forgot my pajamas and wanted to see if I could borrow something from my friends, but I don’t think they’ll be back for hours. Though maybe Jess didn’t go with them, let me text and see if—”

“Here.” Adam set something black and neatly folded on her bed. “You can use this if you want.”

She studied it skeptically. “What is it?”

“A T-shirt. I slept in it yesterday, but it’s probably better than the dress you’re wearing. To sleep in, I mean,” he added, a faint flush on his cheeks.

“Oh.” She picked it up, and the T-shirt unfolded. She immediately noticed three things: it was large, so large that it would hit her mid-thigh or even lower; it smelled heavenly, a mix of Adam’s skin and laundry detergent that had her wanting to bury her face in it and inhale for weeks; and on the front, it said in big, white letters . . .

“?‘Biology Ninja’?”

Adam scratched the back of his neck. “I didn’t buy it.”

“Did you . . . steal it?”

“It was a present.”

“Well.” She grinned. “This is one hell of a present. Doctor ninja.”

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 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 much as the idea of being apart from him for several days. Of being here, of all places, without him. “How big is your suitcase?”