But here he was. Olive heard steps as he walked inside, then him stopping at the entrance of the bedroom, and . . .

She couldn’t convince her eyes to meet his. She was a mess after all, a miserable, disastrous mess. But she should at least attempt to divert Adam’s attention. Maybe by saying something. Anything.

“Hey.” She tried a smile, but continued to stare down at her own hands. “How did your address go?”

“What happened?” His voice was calm, pitched low.

“Did you only just finish?” Her smile was holding. Good. Good, that was good. “How was the Q and A—”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I . . .”

She didn’t manage to finish the sentence. And the smile—which, if she was honest with herself, hadn’t been much of a smile to begin with—was crumbling. Olive heard Adam come closer but didn’t look at him. Her closed eyelids were all that was keeping the floodgates shut, and they weren’t doing a good job of it, either.

She startled when she found him kneeling in front of her. Right by her chair, his head level with hers, studying her with a worried frown. She made to hide her face in her palms, but his hand came up to her chin and lifted it up, until she had no choice but to meet his eyes. Then his fingers slid up to her cheek, cupping it as he asked, yet again, “Olive. What happened?”

“Nothing.” Her voice shook. It kept disappearing somewhere, melting in the tears.

“Olive.”

“Really. Nothing.”

Adam stared at her, questioning, and didn’t let go. “Did someone buy the last bag of chips?”

A laugh bubbled out of her, wet and not wholly under her control. “Yes. Was it you?”

“Of course.” His thumb swiped across her cheekbone, stopping a falling tear. “I bought all of them.”

This smile felt better than the one she’d cobbled together earlier. “I hope you have good health insurance, because you’re so getting type 2 diabetes.”

“Worth it.”

“You monster.” She must have been leaning into his hand, because his thumb was stroking her again. Ever so gently.

“Is that how you talk to your fake boyfriend?” He looked so worried. His eyes, the line of his mouth. And yet—so patient. “What happened, Olive?”

She shook her head. “I just . . .”

She couldn’t tell him. And she couldn’t not tell him. But above all, she couldn’t tell him.

Who do you think Adam will believe, Olive?

She had to take a deep breath. Push Tom’s voice out of her head and calm herself before continuing. Come up with something to say, something that wouldn’t make the sky fall in this hotel room.

“My talk. I thought it went okay. My friends said it did. But then I heard people talking about it, and they said . . .” Adam really should stop touching her. She must be getting his whole hand wet. The sleeve of his blazer, too.

“What did they say?”

“Nothing. That it was derivative. Boring. That I stammered. They knew that I’m your girlfriend and said that was the only reason I was chosen to give a talk.” She shook her head. She needed to let it go. To put it out of her head. To think carefully about what to do.

“Who? Who were they?”

Oh, Adam. “Someone. I’m not sure.”

“Did you see their badges?”

“I . . . didn’t pay attention.”

“Were they on your panel?” There was something underneath his tone. Something pressing that hinted at violence and rage and broken bones. Adam’s hand was still gentle on her cheek, but his eyes narrowed. There was a new tension in his jaw, and Olive felt a shiver run down her spine.

“No,” she lied. “It doesn’t matter. It’s okay.”

His lips pressed into a straight line, his nostrils flared, so she added, “I don’t care what people think of me, anyway.”

“Right,” he scoffed.

This Adam, right here, was the moody, irascible Adam who grads in her program complained about. Olive shouldn’t have been surprised to see him this angry, but he’d never been like this with her before.

“No, really, I don’t care what people say—”

“I know you don’t. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He stared at her, and he was so close. She could see how the yellows and greens mixed into the clear brown of his eyes. “It’s not what they say. It’s what you think. It’s that you think they’re right. Don’t you?”

Her mouth was full of cotton. “I . . .”

“Olive. You are a great scientist. And you will become an even better one.” The way he was looking at her, so earnest and serious—it was going to break her. “Whatever this asshole said, it speaks nothing of you and a whole lot of them.” His fingers shifted on her skin to weave through the hair behind her ear. “Your work is brilliant.”

She didn’t even think it through. And even if she had, she probably couldn’t have stopped herself. She just leaned forward and hid her face in his neck, hugging him tight. A terrible idea, stupid and inappropriate, and Adam was surely going to push her away, any minute now, except that . . .

His palm slid to her nape, almost as if to press her into him, and Olive just stayed there for long minutes, crying warm tears into the flesh of his throat, feeling how grounding, how warm, how solid he was—under her fingers and in her life.

You just had to go and make me fall for you, she thought, blinking against his skin. You absolute ass.

He didn’t let her go. Not until she pulled back and wiped her cheeks again, feeling like maybe this time around she’d be able to hold it together. She sniffled, and he leaned over to grab a box of tissues from the TV table. “I really am fine.”

He sighed.

“Okay, maybe . . . maybe I’m not fine right now, but I will be.” She accepted the tissue that he plucked for her and blew her nose. “I just need a while to . . .”

He studied her and nodded, his eyes unreadable again.

“Thank you. For what you said. For letting me snot all over your hotel room.”

He smiled. “Anytime.”

“And your jacket, too. Are you . . . Are you going to the department social?” she asked, dreading the moment she would have to get out of this chair. Of this room. Be honest, that sensible, ever-knowing voice inside her whispered. It’s his presence that you don’t want to be out of.

“Are you?”

She shrugged. “I said I would. But I don’t feel like talking to anyone right now.” She dried her cheeks once more, but miraculously the flow had stopped. Adam Carlsen, responsible for 90 percent of the department’s tears, had actually managed to make someone stop crying. Who would’ve thought? “Though I feel like the free alcohol could really help.”

He stared at her pensively for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek. Then he nodded, seeming to reach some sort of decision, and stood with his hand held out to her. “Come on.”

“Oh.” She had to crane her neck to look up at him. “I think I’m going to wait a bit before I—”

“We’re not going to the social.”

We? “What?”

“Come on,” he repeated, and this time Olive took his hand and didn’t let go. She couldn’t, with the way his fingers were closing around hers. Adam looked pointedly at her shoes, until she got the hint and slipped them on, using his arm to keep her balance.

“Where are we going?”

“To get some free alcohol. Well”—he amended—“free for you.”

She almost gasped when she realized what he meant. “No, I—Adam, no. You have to go to the department social. And to the opening ceremony. You’re the keynote speaker!”

“And I keynote-spoke.” He grabbed her red duffle coat from the bed and pulled her toward the entrance. “Can you walk in those shoes?”

“I—yes, but—”

“I have my key card; we don’t need yours.”

“Adam.” She grabbed his wrist, and he immediately turned to look at her. “Adam, you can’t skip those events. People will say that you—”

His smile was lopsided. “That I want to spend time with my girlfriend?”