“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.”

“Well, there are technically three keynote speakers, and the other two are married women in their fifties who live in Europe and Japan, so—”

Olive crossed her arms on her chest and gave him a flat look until he quieted. She couldn’t help laughing. “How did this not come up?”

“It’s not a big deal.” He shrugged. “I doubt I was their first choice.”

“Right.” Sure. Because a person existed who’d refuse to be keynote speaker at SBD. She tilted her head. “Did you think I was an idiot, when I started complaining about my ten-minute talk that will be attended by fourteen and a half people?”

“Not at all. Your reaction was understandable.” He thought about it for a moment. “I do sometimes think you’re an idiot, mostly when I see you put ketchup and cream cheese on bagels.”

“It’s a great mix.”

He looked pained. “When are you presenting in your panel? Maybe I can still make it.”

“No. I’m exactly halfway through.” She waved a hand, hoping to seem unconcerned. “It’s fine, really.” And it was. “I’m going to have to record myself with my iPhone, anyway.” She rolled her eyes. “For Dr. Aslan. She couldn’t come to the conference, but she said she wants to listen to my first talk. I can send it to you, if you’re a fan of stammering and secondhand embarrassment.”

“I’d like that.”

Olive flushed and changed the topic. “Is that why you have a room for the entire length of the conference even though you’re not staying? Because you’re a big shot?”

He frowned. “I’m not.”

“Can I call you ‘big shot’ from now on?”

He sighed, walking to the bedside table and pocketing the USB she’d noticed earlier. “I have to take my slides downstairs, smart-ass.”

“Okay.” He could leave. It was fine. Totally fine. Olive didn’t let her smile falter. “I guess I’ll maybe see you after my talk, then?”

“Of course.”

“And after yours. Good luck. And congrats. It’s such a huge honor.”

Adam didn’t seem to be thinking about that, though. He lingered by the door, his hand on the knob as he looked back at Olive. Their eyes held for a few moments before he told her, “Don’t be nervous, okay?”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. “I’ll just do what Dr. Aslan always says.”

“And what’s that?”

“Carry myself with the confidence of a mediocre white man.”

He grinned, and—there they were. The heart-stopping dimples. “It will be fine, Olive.” His smile softened. “And if not, at least it will be over.”

It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when she was sitting on her bed staring at the Boston skyline and chewing on her lunch, that Olive realized that the protein bar Adam had given her was covered in chocolate.

—

SHE CHECKED WHETHER she had the correct room for the third time—nothing like talking about pancreatic cancer to a crowd that expected a presentation on the Golgi apparatus to make an impression—and then felt a hand close around her shoulder. She spun around, noticed who it belonged to, and immediately grinned.

“Tom!”

He was wearing a charcoal suit. His blond hair was combed back, making him look older than he had in California, but also professional. He was a friendly face in a sea of unfamiliar ones, and his presence took the edge off her intense desire to puke in her own shoe.

“Hey, Olive.” He held the door open for her. “I thought I might see you here.”

“Oh?”

“From the conference program.” He looked at her oddly. “You didn’t notice we’re on the same panel?”

Oh, crap. “Uh—I . . . I didn’t even read who else was on the panel.” Because I was too busy panicking.

“No worries. It’s mostly boring people.” He winked, and his hand slid to her back, guiding her toward the podium. “Except for you and me, of course.”

Her talk didn’t go poorly.

It didn’t go perfectly, either. She stumbled on the word “channelrhodopsin” twice, and by some weird trick of the projector her staining looked more like a black blob than a slice. “It looks different on my computer,” Olive told the audience with a strained smile. “Just trust me on this one.”

People chuckled, and she relaxed marginally, grateful that she’d spent hours upon hours memorizing everything she was supposed to say. The room was not as full as she’d feared, and there were a handful of people—likely working on similar projects at other institutions—who took notes and listened raptly to her every word. It should have been overwhelming and anxiety inducing, but about halfway through she realized that it made her oddly giddy, knowing that someone else was passionate about the same research questions that had taken up most of the past two years of her life.

In the second row, Malcolm faked a fascinated expression, while Anh, Jeremy, and a bunch of other grads from Stanford nodded enthusiastically whenever Olive happened to look in their direction. Tom alternated between staring intensely at her and checking his phone with a bored expression—fair, since he’d already read her report. The session was running late, and the moderator ended up giving her time for only one question—an easy one. At the end, two of the other panelists—well-known cancer researchers whom Olive had to restrain herself not to fangirl over—shook her hand and asked her several questions about her work. She was simultaneously flustered and overjoyed.

“You were so amazing,” Anh told her when it was over, pushing up to hug her. “Also, you look hot and professional, and while you were talking, I had a vision of your future in academia.”

Olive wrapped her arms around Anh. “What vision?”

“You were a high-powered researcher, surrounded by students who hung on your every word. And you were answering a multiparagraph email with an uncapitalized no.”

“Nice. Was I happy?”

“Of course not.” Anh snorted. “It’s academia.”

“Ladies, the department social starts in half an hour.” Malcolm leaned in to kiss Olive on the cheek and squeeze her waist. When she was wearing heels, he was just a tiny bit shorter than her. She definitely wanted a picture of the two of them side by side. “We should go celebrate the single time Olive managed to pronounce ‘channelrhodopsin’ right with some free booze.”

“You dick.”

He pulled her in for a tight hug and whispered in her ear, “You did amazing, Kalamata.” And then, louder: “Let’s go get wasted!”

“Why don’t you guys go ahead? I’ll get my USB and put my stuff back in the hotel.”

Olive made her way through the now-empty room to the podium, feeling like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She was relaxed and relieved. Professionally, things were starting to look up: as it turned out, with adequate preparation she could actually string together several coherent sentences in front of other scientists. She also had the means to carry out her research next year, and two big names in her field had just complimented her work. She smiled, letting her mind wander to whether she should text Adam to tell him that he was right, she did make it out alive; she should probably ask how his keynote address had gone, too. If his PowerPoint had acted up and he’d mispronounced words like “microarrays” or “karyotyping,” whether he planned to go to the department social. He was probably meeting up with friends, but maybe she could buy him a thank-you drink for all his help. She would even pay, for once.