The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood

“I’m kidding. I have a tee under my shirt.”
She nodded and hurried into the bathroom, making a point
not to meet his eyes.
Alone under the hot jet of the shower it was much harder to
concentrate on stale sushi and Adam’s uneven smile, and to
forget why he’d ended up allowing her to cling to him for
three whole hours. What Tom had done to her today was
despicable, and she was going to have to report him. She was
going to have to tell Adam. She was going to have to do
something. But every time she tried to think about it rationally,
she could hear his voice in her head—mediocre and nice legs
and useless and derivative and little sob story—so loud that
she was afraid her skull would shatter into pieces.
So she kept her shower as quick as possible, distracting
herself by reading the labels of Adam’s shampoo and body
wash (something hypoallergenic and pH-balanced that had her
rolling her eyes) and drying herself as fast as humanly
possible. She took out her contacts, then stole a bit of his
toothpaste. Her gaze fell on his toothbrush; it was charcoal
black, down to the bristles, and she couldn’t help but giggle.
When she stepped out of the bathroom, he was sitting on
the edge of the bed, wearing plaid pajama pants and a white T-
shirt. He was holding the TV remote in one hand and his
phone in the other, looking between the two screens with a
frown.
“You would.”
“Would what?” he asked absentmindedly.
“Have a black toothbrush.”
His mouth twitched. “You will be shocked to hear that
there is no Netflix category for movies in which horses don’t
die.”