Well. Shit.

Olive spun around, and there he was—sweaty, holding a Frisbee in his left hand, and so very, very shirtless. “Perfect, then!” Anh said, sounding so chipper. “Olive has way too much and was wondering what to do with it. She’ll put some on you!”

No. No, no, no. “I can’t,” she hissed at Anh. “It would be highly inappropriate.”

“Why?” Anh blinked at her innocently. “I put sunscreen on Jeremy all the time. Look”—she squirted lotion on her hand and haphazardly slapped it across Jeremy’s face— “I am putting sunscreen on my boyfriend. Because I don’t want him to get melanoma. Am I ‘inappropriate’?”

Olive was going to murder her. Olive was going to make her lick every drop of this stupid sunscreen and watch her writhe in pain as she slowly died of oxybenzone poisoning.

Later, though. For now, Adam was looking at her, expression completely unreadable, and Olive would have apologized, she would have crawled under the table, she would have at least waved at him—but all she could do was stare and notice that even though the last time they’d talked she’d insulted him, he didn’t really seem angry. Just thoughtful and a little confused as he looked between Olive’s face and the small lake of white goop that now lived in her hands, probably trying to figure out if there was a way to get out of this latest shitshow—and then, finally, just giving up on it.

He nodded once, minutely, and turned around, the muscles in his back shifting as he threw Dr. Rodrigues the Frisbee and yelled, “I’m taking five!”

Which, Olive assumed, meant that they were actually doing this. Of course they damn were. Because this was her life, and these were her poor, moronic, harebrained choices.

“Hey,” Adam said to her once they were closer. He was looking at her hands, at the way she had to hold them in front of her body like a supplicant. Behind her, Anh and Jeremy were no doubt ogling them.

“Hey.” She was wearing flip-flops, and he had sneakers on, and—he was always tall, but right now he towered over her. It put her eyes right in front of his pecs, and . . . No. Nope. Not doing that.

“Can you turn around?”

He hesitated for a moment, but then he did, uncharacteristically obedient. Which ended up resolving none of Olive’s problems, since his back was in no way less broad or impressive than his chest.

“Can you, um . . . duck a bit?”

Adam bent his head until his shoulders were . . . still abnormally high but somewhat easier to reach. As she lifted her right hand, some of the lotion dripped to the ground—Where it belongs, she thought savagely—and then she was doing it, this thing that she had never thought she would ever, ever do. Putting sunscreen on Adam Carlsen.

It wasn’t her first time touching him. Therefore, she shouldn’t have been surprised by how hard his muscles were, or that there was no give to his flesh. Olive remembered the way he’d pushed the truck, imagined that he could probably bench-press three times her weight, and then ordered herself to stop, because that was not an appropriate train of thought. Still, the issue remained that there was nothing between her hand and his skin. He was hot from the sun, his shoulders relaxed and immobile under her touch. Even in public, close as they were, it felt like something intimate was happening.

“So.” Her mouth was dry. “This might be a good time to mention how sorry I am that we keep getting stuck in these situations.”

“It’s fine.”

“I really am, though.”

“It’s not your fault.” There was an edge in his voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Yep.” He nodded, though the movement seemed taut. Which had Olive realizing that maybe he was not as relaxed as she’d initially thought.

“How much do you hate this, on a scale from one to ‘correlation equals causation’?”

He surprised her by chuckling, though he still sounded strained. “I don’t hate it. And it’s not your fault.”

“Because I know this is the worst possible thing, and—”

“It isn’t. Olive.” He turned a bit to look her in the eyes, a mix of amusement and that odd tension. “These things are going to keep on happening.”

“Right.”

His fingers brushed softly against her left palm as he stole a bit of her sunscreen for his front. Which, all in all, was for the best. She really didn’t want to be massaging lotion into his chest in front of 70 percent of her Ph.D. program—not to mention her boss, since Dr. Aslan was probably watching them like a hawk. Or maybe she wasn’t. Olive had no intention of turning around to check. She’d rather live in less-than-blissful ignorance. “Mostly because you hang out with some really nosy people.”

She burst out laughing. “I know. Believe me, I’m really regretting befriending Anh right now. Kind of contemplating assassinating her, to tell the truth.”

She moved to his shoulder blades. He had a lot of small moles and freckles, and she wondered exactly how inappropriate it would be if she played connect the dots on them with her fingers. She could just imagine the amazing pictures it would reveal.

“But hey, the long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proven by scientists. And you are pretty pale. Here, duck a bit more, so I can get your neck.”

“Mmm.”

She walked around him to get to the front part of his shoulders. He was so big, she was going to have to use all this stupid lotion. Might even need to ask Anh for more. “At least the department chair is getting a show. And you look like you’re having fun.”

He glanced pointedly at the way her hand was spreading sunscreen on his collarbone. Olive’s cheeks burned. “No, I mean—not because I am . . . I meant, you look like you’re having a good time playing Frisbee. Or whatever.”

He made a face. “Beats chitchatting, for sure.”

She laughed. “That makes sense. I bet that’s why you’re so fit. You played lots of sports growing up because it got you out of talking with people. It also explains why now that you’re an adult your personality is so—” Olive stopped short.

Adam lifted one eyebrow. “Antagonistic and unapproachable?”

Crap. “I didn’t say that.”

“You just typed it.”

“I-I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to—” She pressed her lips together, flustered. Then she noticed that the corners of his eyes were crinkling. “Damn you.”

She pinched him lightly on the underside of his arm. He yelped and smiled wider, which made her wonder what he would do if she retaliated by writing her name with sunscreen on his chest, just enough for him to only get a tan around it. She tried to imagine his face after taking off his T-shirt, finding the five letters printed on his flesh in the reflection of his bathroom mirror. The expression he’d make. Whether he’d touch them with his fingertips.

Crazy, she told herself. This whole thing, it’s driving you crazy. So he’s handsome, and you find him attractive. Big deal. Who cares?

She wiped her mostly lotion-free hands down the columns of his biceps and took a step back. “You’re good to go, Dr. Antagonistic.”

He smelled of fresh sweat, himself, and coconut. Olive wasn’t going to get to talk with him again until Wednesday, and why the thought came with an odd pang in her chest, she had no clue.

“Thanks. And thank Anh, I guess.”

“Mm. What do you think she’ll have us do next time?”

He shrugged. “Hold hands?”

“Feed each other strawberries?”

“Good one.”

“Maybe she’ll up her game.”

“Fake wedding?”

“Fake-buy a house together?”

“Fake-sign the mortgage paperwork?”

Olive laughed, and the way he looked at her, kind and curious and patient . . . she must be hallucinating it. Her head was not right. She should have brought a sun hat.

“Hey, Olive.”

She tore her gaze from Adam’s and noticed Tom approaching. He, too, was shirtless, and clearly fit, and had a large number of abs that were defined enough to be easily counted. And yet, for some reason, it did absolutely nothing for Olive.