She chuckled. He was funny, in that weird, dark way of his. “I bet you do.
Well, here’s my idea: we should hang when we’re there. In front of the department chair—since he’s ‘monitoring.’ I’ll bat my eyelashes at you; he’ll see that we’re basically one step away from marriage. Then he’ll make a quick phone call and a truck will drive up and unload your research funds in cash right there in front of—”
“Hey, man!”
A blond man approached Adam. Olive fell silent as Adam turned to smile at him and exchanged a handshake—a close bros handshake. She blinked, wondering if she was seeing things, and took a sip of her latte.
“I thought you’d sleep in,” Adam was saying.
“The time difference screwed me up. I figured I might as well come to campus and get to work. Something to eat, too. You have no food, man.”
“There are apples in the kitchen.”
“Right. No food.”
Olive took a step back, ready to excuse herself, when the blond man turned his attention to her. He looked eerily familiar, even though she was certain she had never met him before.
“And who’s this?” he asked curiously. His eyes were a very piercing blue.
“This is Olive,” Adam said. There was a beat after her name, in which he should have probably specified how he knew Olive. He did not, and she really couldn’t blame him for not wanting to feed their fake-dating crap to someone who was clearly a good friend. She just kept her smile in place and let Adam continue. “Olive, this is my collaborator—”
“Dude.” The man pretended to bristle. “Introduce me as your friend.”
Adam rolled his eyes, clearly amused. “Olive, this is my friend and collaborator. Dr. Tom Benton.”
Chapter Five
HYPOTHESIS: The more I need my brain to be on top of its game, the higher the probability that it will freeze on me.
“Wait a minute.” Dr. Benton tilted his head. His smile was still in place, but his gaze became a little sharper, his focus on Olive less superficial. “Do you happen to be . . .” Olive froze.
Her mind was never calm, or orderly—more like a garbled mess of thoughts, really. And yet, standing there in front of Tom Benton, the inside of her head went uncharacteristically quiet, and several considerations stacked themselves neatly into place.
The first was that she was comically luckless. The chances that the person she depended on to finish her beloved research project would be acquainted—no, friends with the person she depended on to ensure her beloved Anh’s romantic happiness were laughably low. And yet. Then again, Olive’s special brand of luck was no news, so she moved on to the next consideration.
She needed to admit who she was to Tom Benton. They were scheduled to meet at 3:00 p.m., and pretending not to recognize him now would mean the kiss of death to her plans to infiltrate herself into his lab. Academics had huge egos, after all.
Last consideration: if she phrased this right, she could probably avoid Dr. Benton hearing about the whole fake-dating mess. Adam hadn’t mentioned it, which probably meant that he wasn’t planning to. Olive just needed to follow his lead.
Yes. Excellent plan. She had this in the bag.
Olive smiled, held on to her pumpkin spice latte, and answered, “Yes, I’m Olive Smith, the—”
“Girlfriend I’ve heard so much about?”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She swallowed. “Um, actually I—” “Heard from whom?” Adam asked, frowning.
Dr. Benton shrugged. “Everyone.”
“Everyone,” Adam repeated. He was scowling now. “In Boston?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are people at Harvard talking about my girlfriend?”
“Because you’re you.”
“Because I’m me?” Adam looked perplexed.
“There have been tears. Some hair-pulling. A few broken hearts. Don’t worry, they’ll get over it.”
Adam rolled his eyes, and Dr. Benton returned his attention to Olive. He smiled at her, offering his hand. “It’s very nice to meet you. I had written off the whole girlfriend thing as rumors, but I’m glad you . . . exist. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name—I’m terrible at names.”
“I’m Olive.” She shook his hand. He had a nice grip, not too tight and not too soft.
“Which department do you teach, Olive?”
Oh, crap. “Actually, I don’t. Teach, that is.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to assume.” He smiled, apologetic and selfeffacing. There was a smooth charm to him. He was young to be a professor, though not as young as Adam. And he was tall, though not as tall as Adam. And he was handsome, though . . . yeah. Not as handsome as Adam.
“What do you do, then? Are you a research fellow?”
“Um, I actually—”
“She’s a student,” Adam said.
