The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood

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.