Praise for The Love Hypothesis
“Contemporary romance’s unicorn: the elusive marriage of deeply brainy and delightfully escapist. . . . The Love Hypothesis has wild commercial appeal, but the quieter secret is that there is a specific audience, made up of all of the Olives in the world, who have deeply, ardently waited for this exact book.”
— New York Times bestselling author Christina Lauren
“Funny, sexy, and smart. Ali Hazelwood did a terrific job with The Love Hypothesis.”
— New York Times bestselling author Mariana Zapata
“This tackles one of my favorite tropes—Grumpy meets Sunshine—in a fun and utterly endearing way. . . . I loved the nods toward fandom and romance novels, and I couldn’t put it down. Highly recommended!”
— New York Times bestselling author Jessica Clare
“A beautifully written romantic comedy with a heroine you will instantly fall in love with, The Love Hypothesis is destined to earn a place on your keeper shelf.”
—Elizabeth Everett, author of A Lady’s Formula for Love
Prologue
Frankly, Olive was a bit on the fence about this whole grad school thing.
Not because she didn’t like science. (She did. She loved science. Science was her thing.) And not because of the truckload of obvious red flags. She was well aware that committing to years of unappreciated, underpaid eighty-hour workweeks might not be good for her mental health. That nights spent toiling away in front of a Bunsen burner to uncover a trivial slice of knowledge might not be the key to happiness. That devoting her mind and body to academic pursuits with only infrequent breaks to steal unattended bagels might not be a wise choice.
She was well aware, and yet none of it worried her. Or maybe it did, a tiny bit, but she could deal. It was something else that held her back from surrendering herself to the most notorious and soul-sucking circle of hell (i.e., a Ph.D. program). Held her back, that is, until she was invited to interview for a spot in Stanford’s biology department, and came across The Guy.
The Guy whose name she never really got.
The Guy she met after stumbling blindly into the first bathroom she could find.
The Guy who asked her, “Out of curiosity, is there a specific reason you’re crying in my restroom?”
Olive squeaked. She tried to open her eyes through the tears and only barely managed to. Her entire field of view was blurry. All she could see was a watery outline—someone tall, dark haired, dressed in black, and . . . yeah.
That was it.
“I . . . is this the ladies’ restroom?” she stammered.
A pause. Silence. And then: “Nope.” His voice was deep. So deep.
Really deep. Dreamy deep.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Fairly, since this is my lab’s bathroom.”
Well. He had her there. “I’m so sorry. Do you need to . . .” She gestured toward the stall, or where she thought the stalls were. Her eyes stung, even closed, and she had to scrunch them shut to dull the burn. She tried to dry her cheeks with her sleeve, but the material of her wrap dress was cheap and flimsy, not half as absorbent as real cotton. Ah, the joys of being impoverished.
“I just need to pour this reagent down the drain,” he said, but she didn’t hear him move. Maybe because she was blocking the sink. Or maybe because he thought Olive was a weirdo and was contemplating siccing the campus police on her. That would put a brutally quick end to her Ph.D. dreams, wouldn’t it? “We don’t use this as a restroom, just to dispose of waste and wash equipment.”
“Oh, sorry. I thought . . .” Poorly. She’d thought poorly, as was her habit and curse.
“Are you okay?” He must be really tall. His voice sounded like it came from ten feet above her.
“Sure. Why do you ask?”
“Because you are crying. In my bathroom.”
“Oh, I’m not crying. Well, I sort of am, but it’s just tears, you know?”
“I do not.”
She sighed, slumping against the tiled wall. “It’s my contacts. They expired some time ago, and they were never that great to begin with. They messed up my eyes. I’ve taken them off, but . . .” She shrugged. Hopefully in his direction. “It takes a while, before they get better.”
“You put in expired contacts?” He sounded personally offended.
“Just a little expired.”
“What’s ‘a little’?”
“I don’t know. A few years?”
“What? ” His consonants were sharp and precise. Crisp. Pleasant.
“Only just a couple, I think.”
