“That’s not true at all. You’re very good at making time for others. For me.” She smiled, but he looked away as if embarrassed, and she decided to change the topic. “The only thing I can say in Dutch is ‘ik hou van jou.’ ” Her pronunciation must have been poor, because for a long moment Adam couldn’t parse it. Then he did, and his eyes widened.

“My college roommate had a poster with ‘I love you’ written in every language,” Olive explained. “Right across from my bed. First thing I’d see every morning after waking up.”

“And at the end of year four you knew every language?”

“End of year one. She joined a sorority as a sophomore, which was for the best.” She lowered her gaze, nuzzled her face in his chest, and then looked back up at him. “It’s pretty stupid, if you think about it.”

“Stupid?”

“Who needs to know how to say ‘I love you’ in every language? People barely need it in one. Sometimes not even in one.” She smoothed his hair back with her fingers. “ ‘Where’s the restroom?’ on the other hand . . .”

He leaned into her touch, as if soothed by it. “Waar is de WC?”

Olive blinked.

“That would be ‘Where’s the restroom?’ ” he explained.

“Yeah, I figured. Just . . . your voice . . .” She cleared her throat. She’d been better off without knowing how attractive he sounded when speaking another language. “Anyway. That would be a useful poster.” She brushed her finger against his forehead. “What’s this from?”

“My face?”

“The little scar. The one above your eyebrow.”

“Ah. Just a stupid fight.”

“A fight?” She chuckled. “Did one of your grads try to kill you?”

“Nah, I was a kid. Though I could see my grads pouring acetonitrile in my coffee.”

“Oh, totally.” She nodded in agreement. “I have one, too.” She pulled her hair behind her shoulder and showed him the small, half-moon-shaped line right next to her temple.

“I know.”

“You know? About my scar?”

He nodded.

“When did you notice? It’s really faint.”

He shrugged and began tracing it with his thumb. “What’s it from?”

“I don’t remember. But my mom said that when I was four there was this huge snowstorm in Toronto. Inches upon inches of snow piling up, the most intense in five decades, you know the drill. And everyone knew it was coming, and she’d been preparing me for days, telling me that we might end up stuck at home for a few days. I was so excited about it that I ran outside and dove headfirst into the snow—except that I did it about half an hour after the storm had started, and ended up hitting my head on a stone.” She laughed softly, and so did Adam. It had been one of her mother’s favorite stories. And now Olive was the only person who could tell it. It lived in her, and no one else. “I miss the snow. California is beautiful, and I hate the cold. But I really miss the snow.”

He continued stroking her scar, a faint smile on his lips. And then, when the silence had settled around them, he said, “Boston will have snow. Next year.”

Her heart thudded. “Yeah.” Except that she wouldn’t be going to Boston, not anymore. She’d have to find another lab. Or not work in a lab at all.

Adam’s hand traveled up her neck, closing gently around her nape. “There are good trails for hiking, where Holden and I used to go in grad school.” He hesitated before adding, “I’d love to take you.”

She closed her eyes, and for a second she let herself imagine it. The black of Adam’s hair against the white snow and the deep greens of the trees. Her boots sinking into the soft ground. Cold air flowing inside her lungs, and a warm hand wrapping around her own. She could almost see the flakes, fluttering behind her eyelids. Bliss.

“You’ll be in California, though,” she said distractedly.

A pause. Too long.

Olive opened her eyes. “Adam?”

He rolled his tongue inside his cheek, as if thinking carefully about his words. “There is a chance that I’ll be moving to Boston.”

She blinked at him, confused. Moving? He’d be moving? “What?” No. What was he saying? Adam was not going to leave Stanford, right? He’d never been—the flight risk had never been real. Right?

Except he’d never said that. Olive thought back to their conversations, and—he’d complained about the department withholding his research funds, about them suspecting that he was going to leave, about the assumptions people had made because of his collaboration with Tom, but . . . he’d never said that they were wrong. He’d said that the frozen funds had been earmarked for research—for the current year. That’s why he’d wanted them released as soon as possible.

“Harvard,” she whispered, feeling incredibly stupid. “You’re moving to Harvard.”

“It’s not decided yet.” His hand was still wrapped around her neck, thumb swiping back and forth across the pulse at the base of her throat. “I’ve been asked to interview, but there’s no official offer.”

“When? When will you interview?” she asked, but didn’t really need his answer. It was all starting to make sense in her head. “Tomorrow. You’re not going home.” He’d never said he would. He’d only told her he’d be leaving the conference early. Oh God. Stupid, Olive. Stupid. “You’re going to Harvard. To interview for the rest of the week.”

“It was the only way to avoid making the department even more suspicious,” he explained. “The conference was a good cover.”

She nodded. It wasn’t good—it was perfect. And God, she felt nauseous. And weak-kneed, even lying down. “They’ll offer you the position,” she murmured, even though he must already know. He was Adam Carlsen, after all. And he’d been asked to interview. They were courting him.

“It’s not certain yet.”

It was. Of course it was. “Why Harvard?” she blurted. “Why—why do you want to leave Stanford?” Her voice shook a little, even though she did her best to sound calm.

“My parents live on the East Coast, and while I have my issues with them, they’re going to need me close sooner or later.” He paused, but Olive could tell that he wasn’t done. She braced herself. “The main reason is Tom. And the grant. I want to transition to doing more similar work, but that will only be possible if we show good results. Being in the same department as Tom would make us infinitely more productive. Professionally, moving’s a no-brainer.”

She’d braced herself, but it still felt like a punch in the sternum that left her void of air, caused her stomach to twist and her heart to drop. Tom. This was about Tom.

“Of course,” she whispered. It helped her voice sound firmer. “It makes sense.”

“And I could help you acclimatize, too,” he offered, significantly more bashful. “If you want to. To Boston. To Tom’s lab. Show you around, if you . . . if you’re feeling lonely. Buy you that pumpkin stuff.”

She couldn’t answer that. She really—she could not answer that. So she hung her head for a few moments, ordered herself to buck the hell up, and lifted it again to smile at him.

She could do this. She would do this. “What time are you leaving tomorrow?” He was probably just moving to another hotel, closer to the Harvard campus.

“Early.”

“Okay.” She leaned forward and buried her face in his throat. They were not going to sleep, not one second. It would be such a waste. “You don’t have to wake me up, when you leave.”

“You’re not going to carry my bags downstairs?”

She laughed into his neck and burrowed deeper into him. This, she thought, this was going to be their perfect night. And their last.

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Chapter Eighteen