The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood

she guarded most carefully. She looked at Adam, and it
swelled even larger, even stronger, even hotter.
You, she thought. You. You are just the most—
The worst—
The best—
Olive laughed, shaking her head.
“What?” he asked, puzzled.
“Nothing.” She grinned at him. “Nothing. Hey, you know
what? You and I should go get coffee. To celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“Everything! Your grant. My year at Harvard. How great
our fake dating is going.”
It was probably unfair of her to ask, since they were not
due for fake-dating coffee until tomorrow. But the previous
Wednesday had lasted just a few short minutes, and since
Friday night, there had been about thirty times when Olive had
to forcibly remove her phone from her hands to avoid texting
him things he couldn’t possibly care about. He didn’t need to
know that he was right and the problem with her Western blot
had been the antibody. There was no way he’d have answered
her if on Saturday at 10:00 p.m., when she’d been dying to
know if he was in his office, she had sent that Hey, what are
you up to? message that she’d written and deleted twice. And
she was glad she’d ended up chickening out of forwarding him
that Onion article on sun-safety tips.
It was probably unfair of her to ask, and yet today was a
momentous day, and she found herself wanting to celebrate.
With him.
He bit the inside of his cheek, looking pensive. “Would it
be actual coffee, or chamomile tea?”
“Depends. Will you go all moody on me?”