“So. How are you?” she asked, because it was the thing to do.
“Fine. You?”
“Fine.”
It occurred to Olive that maybe she hadn’t thought this through as thoroughly as she should have. Because being seen together might have been their goal, but standing next to each other in silence was not going to fool anyone into thinking that they were blissfully dating. And Adam was . . . well.
He seemed unlikely to initiate any kind of conversation.
“So.” Olive shifted her weight to the balls of her feet a couple of times.
“What’s your favorite color?”
He looked at her, confused. “What?”
“Your favorite color.”
“My favorite color?”
“Yep.”
There was a crease between his eyes. “I—don’t know?”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“They’re colors. They’re all the same.”
“There must be one you like most.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Red?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yellow? Vomit green?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking?”
Olive shrugged. “It feels like something I should know.”
“Why?”
“Because. If someone tries to figure out whether we’re really dating, it might be one of the first questions they ask. Top five, for sure.”
He studied her for a few seconds. “Does that seem like a likely scenario to you?”
“About as likely as me fake-dating you.”
He nodded, as if conceding her point. “Okay. Black, I guess.”
She snorted. “Figures.”
“What’s wrong with black?” He frowned.
“It’s not even a color. It’s no colors, technically.”
“It’s better than vomit green.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Of course it is.”
“Yeah, well. It suits your scion-of-darkness personality.”
“What does that even—”
“Good morning.” The barista smiled at them cheerfully. “What will you have today?”
Olive smiled back, gesturing at Adam to order first.
“Coffee.” He darted a glance at her before adding, sheepishly, “Black.”
She had to duck her head to hide her smile, but when she glanced at him again, the corner of his mouth was curved upward. Which, she reluctantly admitted to herself, was not a bad look for him. She ignored it and ordered the most fatty, sugary thing on the drink menu, asking for extra whipped cream. She was wondering if she should try to make up for it by buying an apple, too, or if she should just lean into it and top it off with a cookie, when Adam took a credit card out of his wallet and held it to the cashier.
“Oh, no. No, no, no. No.” Olive put her hand in front of his and lowered her voice. “You can’t pay for my stuff.”
He blinked. “I can’t?”
