Malcolm glared, and she laughed.

“Listen, I’m clearly bad at real dating. Maybe fake dating will be different. Maybe I’ve found my niche.”

He sighed. “Does it have to be Carlsen? There are better faculty members to fake-date.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. Dr. McCoy?”

“Didn’t her wife just give birth to triplets?”

“Oh, yeah. What about Holden Rodrigues? He’s hot. Cute smile, too. I would know—he always smiles at me.”

Olive burst into laughter. “I could never fake-date Dr. Rodrigues, not with how assiduously you’ve been thirsting after him for the past two years.”

“I have, haven’t I? Did I ever tell you about the serious flirting that happened between us at the undergrad research fair? I’m pretty sure he winked at me multiple times from the other side of the room. Now, some say he just had something in his eye, but—”

“Me. I said that he probably had something in his eye. And you tell me about it every other day.”

“Right.” He sighed. “You know, Ol, I would have fake-dated you myself in a heartbeat, to spare you from goddamned Carlsen. I would have held hands with you, and given you my jacket when you were cold, and very publicly gifted you chocolate roses and teddy bears on Valentine’s Day.”

How refreshing, to talk with someone who’d watched a rom-com. Or ten. “I know. But you also bring home a different person every week, and you love it, and I love that you love it. I don’t want to cramp your style.”

“Fair.” Malcolm looked pleased—whether at the fact that he really did get around a fair bit or at Olive’s thorough understanding of his dating habits, she wasn’t sure.

“Can you please not hate me, then?”

He tossed the kitchen cloth onto the counter and stepped closer. “Ol. I could never hate you. You’ll always be my kalamata.” He pulled her into his chest, hugging her tight. At the beginning, when they’d just met, Olive had been constantly disoriented by how physical he was, probably because it had been years since she’d experienced such affectionate contact. Now, Malcolm’s hugs were her happy place.

She laid her head on his shoulder and smiled into the cotton of his T-shirt. “Thanks.”

Malcolm held her tighter.

“And I promise if I ever bring Adam home, I’ll put a sock on my door— Ouch!”

“You evil creature.”

“I was kidding! Wait, don’t leave, I have something important to tell you.”

He paused by the door, scowling. “I’ve reached my maximum daily intake of Carlsen-related conversation. Anything further will be lethal, so—”

“Tom Benton, the cancer researcher from Harvard, reached out to me! It’s not decided yet, but he might be interested in having me in his lab next year.”

“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.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Four

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?”

“They’re colors. They’re all the same.”

“There must be one you like most.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Red?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yellow? Vomit green?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking?”