“It’s fine.”
“Did you have a good week?”
“Fine.”
Okay. “Um . . . did you do anything fun last weekend?”
“I worked.”
They got in line to order, and it was all Olive could do to stop herself from sighing. “Weather’s been nice, right? Not too hot.” He grunted in response.
It was starting to be a bit much. There was a limit to what Olive would do for this fake-dating relationship—even for a free mango Frappuccino. She sighed. “Is it because of the haircut?”
That got his attention. Adam looked down at her, a vertical line deep between his eyebrows. “What?”
“The mood. Is it because of the haircut?”
“What mood?”
Olive gestured broadly toward him. “This. The bad mood you’re in.”
“I’m not in a bad mood.”
She snorted—though that was probably not the right term for what she just did. It was too loud and derisive, more like a laugh. A snaugh.
“What?” He frowned, unappreciative of her snaugh.
“Come on.”
“What?”
“You ooze moodiness.”
“I do not.” He sounded indignant, which struck her as oddly endearing.
“You so do. I saw that face, and I immediately knew.”
“You did not.”
“I did. I do. But it’s fine, you’re allowed to be in a bad mood.”
It was their turn, so she took a step forward and smiled at the cashier.
“Good morning. I’ll have a pumpkin spice latte. And that cream cheese danish over there. Yep, that one, thank you. And”—she pointed at Adam with her thumb—“he’ll have chamomile tea. No sugar,” she added cheerfully. She immediately took a few steps to the side, hoping to avoid damage in case Adam decided to throw a petri dish at her. She was surprised when he calmly handed his credit card to the boy behind the counter. Really, he wasn’t as bad as they made him out to be.
“I hate tea,” he said. “And chamomile.”
Olive beamed up at him. “That is unfortunate.”
“You smart-ass.”
He stared straight ahead, but she was almost certain that he was about to crack a smile. There was a lot to be said about him but not that he didn’t have a sense of humor.
“So . . . not the haircut?”
“Mm? Ah, no. It was a weird length. Getting in my way while I was running.”
Oh. So he was a runner. Like Olive. “Okay. Great. Because it doesn’t look bad.”
It looks good. As in, really good. You were probably one of the mosthandsome men I’d ever talked to last week, but now you look even better. Notthat I care about these things. I don’t care at all. I rarely notice guys, andI’m not sure why I’m noticing you , or your hair, or your clothes, or how tall and broad you are. I really don’t get it. I never care. Usually. Ugh.
“I . . .” He seemed flustered for a second, his lips moving without making a sound as he looked for an appropriate response. Then, out of the blue, he
said, “I talked with the department chair this morning. He’s still refusing to release my research funds.”
“Oh.” She cocked her head. “I thought they weren’t due to decide until the end of September.”
“They aren’t. This was an informal meeting, but the topic came up. He said that he’s still monitoring the situation.”
“I see.” She waited for him to continue. When it became clear that he wouldn’t, she asked, “Monitoring . . . how?” “Unclear.” He was clenching his jaw.
“I’m sorry.” She felt for him. She really did. If there was something she could empathize with, it was scientific studies coming to an abrupt halt because of a lack of resources. “Does that mean that you can’t continue your research?”
“I have other grants.”
“So . . . the problem is that you cannot start new studies?”
“I can. I had to rearrange different pots, but I should be able to afford to start new lines of research, too.”
