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“Believe me, I don’t.”
“Good. Great.” She sighed, but it was reassuring, knowing that he was going to be checking her work. “Will you come to my talk?” she heard herself ask, and was as surprised by the request as Adam seemed to be.
“I . . . Do you want me to?”
No. No, it’s going to be horrible, and humiliating, and probably a disaster, and you’re going to see me at my worst and weakest. It’s probably best if you lock yourself into the bathroom for the entire duration of the panel. Just so you don’t accidentally wander in and see me making a fool of myself.
And yet. Just the idea of having him there, sitting in the audience, made the prospect seem like less of an ordeal. He was not her adviser, and he wasn’t going to be able to do much if she got inundated by a barrage of impossible questions, or if the projector stopped working halfway through the talk. But maybe that wasn’t what she needed from him.
It hit her then what was so special about Adam. That no matter his reputation, or how rocky their first meeting, since the very beginning, Olive had felt that he was on her side. Over and over, and in ways that she could never have anticipated, he had made her feel unjudged. Less alone.
She exhaled slowly. The realization should have been rattling, but it had an oddly calming effect. “Yes,” she told him, thinking that this might very well turn out to be all right. She might never have what she wanted from Adam, but for now at least, he was in her life. That was going to have to be enough.
“I will, then.”
She leaned forward. “Will you ask a long-winded, leading question that will cause me to ramble incoherently and lose the respect of my peers, thus forever undermining my place in the field of biology?”
“Possibly.” He was smiling. “Should I buy you that disgusting”—Adam gestured toward the register—“pumpkin sludge now?”
She grinned. “Oh, yes. I mean, if you want to.”
“I’d rather buy you anything else.”
“Too bad.” Olive jumped to her feet and headed for the counter, tugging at his sleeve and forcing him to stand with her. Adam followed meekly, mumbling something about black coffee that Olive chose to ignore.
Enough, she repeated to herself. What you have now, it will have to be enough.
Chapter Fourteen
HYPOTHESIS: This conference will be the worst thing to ever happen to my professional career, general well-being, and sense of sanity.
There were two beds in the hotel room.
Two double beds to be precise, and as she stared at them, Olive felt her shoulders sag with relief and had to resist the urge to fist-pump. Take that, you stupid rom-coms. She may have fallen for the dude she’d begun to fake-date like some born-yesterday fool, but at least she wouldn’t be sharing a bed with him any time soon. Given her disastrous past couple of weeks, she’d really, really needed the win.
There were a number of little clues that Adam had slept on the bed closest to the entrance—a book on the bedside table in a language that looked like German, a thumb drive and the same iPad she’d seen him carry around on several occasions, an iPhone charger dangling from the power outlet. A suitcase tucked by the foot of the bed, black and expensive-looking. Unlike Olive’s, it probably hadn’t been fished out of the Walmart bargain bin.
“I guess this is mine, then,” she murmured, sitting on the bed closest to the window and bouncing a few times to test the firmness of the mattress. It was a nice ro
om. Not ridiculously fancy, but Olive was suddenly grateful for the way Adam had snorted and looked at her like she was crazy when she’d offered to pay for half of it. At least the place was wide enough that they weren’t going to have to brush up against each other every time they moved around. Staying in here with him wouldn’t feel like a singularly sadistic version of seven minutes in heaven.
Not that they’d be together much. She was going to give her talk in a couple of hours—ugh—then go to the department’s social and hang out with her friends until . . . well, as long as she feasibly could. Odds were that Adam already had tons of meetings scheduled, and maybe they wouldn’t even see each other. Olive would be asleep when he came back tonight, and tomorrow morning one of them would pretend not to wake up while the other got ready. It was going to be fine. Harmless. At the very least, not make things worse than they currently were.
Olive’s usual conference outfit was black jeans and her least-frayed cardigan, but a few days ago Anh had mentioned that the ensemble might be too casual for a talk. After sighing for hours Olive had decided to bring the black wrap dress she’d bought on sale before interviewing for grad school and black pumps borrowed from Anh’s sister. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but as soon as she slipped into the bathroom to put on the dress, she realized that it must have shrunk the last time she washed it. It didn’t quite hit her knees anymore, not by a couple of inches. She groaned and snapped a picture for Anh and Malcolm, who texted her, respectively, Still conference appropriate and a fire emoji. Olive prayed that Anh was right as she combed the waves in her hair and fought against dried-out mascara—her fault for buying makeup at the dollar store, clearly.
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?”
