Ali Hazelwood

“You’re not going to slow down your pace to match mine, are you?”

“Of course I am.”

“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.

“It’s fine.” She waved a hand. She’d have rolled her eyes, if they hadn’t been on fire. “The burning usually lasts only a few minutes.”

“You mean you’ve done this before?”

“What about you?” she asked, pressing her palms into them.

“Me?”

“How long have you been here?”

“Here?” A pause. “Six years. Give or take.”

“Oh. Are you graduating soon, then?”

“I . . .”

She picked up on his hesitation and instantly felt guilty. “Wait, you don’t have to tell me. First rule of grad school—don’t ask about other grads’ dissertation timeline.”

“What if I’m not good enough?”

“Here’s the deal: I have no idea if you’re good enough, but that’s not what you should be asking yourself. Academia’s a lot of bucks for very little bang. What matters is whether your reason to be in academia is good enough. So, why the Ph.D., Olive?”

She thought about it, and thought, and thought even more. And then she spoke carefully. “I have a question. A specific research question. Something that I want to find out.” There. Done. This was the answer. “Something I’m afraid no one else will discover if I don’t.”

“Is mine a good enough reason to go to grad school?” she called after him, hating how eager for approval she sounded. It was possible that she was in the midst of some sort of existential crisis.

He paused and looked back at her. “It’s the best one.”

Kiss Dude, on the other hand, was standing right in front of her, lips parted, chest rising and a weird light flickering in his eyes, which was exactly when it dawned on her, the enormity of what she had just done. Of who she had just—

Fuck her life.

Fuck. Her. Life.

Because Dr. Adam Carlsen was a known ass.

And Olive had just kissed him.

It’s okay. It’s fine. Totally fine. She was just going to pretend nothing had happened, nod at him politely, and tiptoe her way out of here. Yes, solid plan.

“Did you . . . Did you just kiss me?” He sounded puzzled, and maybe a little out of breath. His lips were full and plump and . . . God. Kissed. There was simply no way Olive could get away with denying what she had just done.

Still, it was worth a try.

“Nope.”

Surprisingly, it seemed to work.

“Ah. Okay, then.” Carlsen nodded and turned around, looking vaguely disoriented. He took a couple of steps down the hallway, reached the water fountain—maybe where he’d been headed in the first place.

Olive was starting to believe that she might actually be off the hook when he halted and turned back with a skeptical expression.

“Are you sure?”