“You mean . . . forever?” She thought her voice came out whiny, but it was possible that it was just an effect of the blood pounding in her head.
“That sounds excessive. Maybe until your friends are not dating anymore? Or until they’re more settled? I don’t know. Whatever works best, I guess.” He was serious about this. He was not joking.
“Are you not . . .” Olive had no idea how to even ask it. “Married, or something?” He must have been in his early thirties. He had a fantastic job; he was tall with thick, wavy black hair, clearly smart, even attractive looking; he was built. Yeah, he was a moody dick, but some women wouldn’t mind it. Some women might even like it.
He shrugged. “My wife and the twins won’t mind.”
Oh, shit.
Olive felt a wave of heat wash over her. She blushed crimson and then almost died of shame, because— God, she had forced a married man, a father, to kiss her. Now people thought that he was having an affair. His wife was probably crying into her pillow. His kids would grow up with horrible daddy issues and become serial killers.
“I . . . Oh my God, I didn’t— I am so sorry—”
“Just kidding.”
“I really had no idea that you—”
“Olive. I was joking. I’m not married. No kids.”
A wave of relief crashed into her. Followed by just as much anger. “Dr. Carlsen, this is not something you should joke—”
“You really need to start calling me Adam. Since we’ve reportedly been dating for a while.”
Olive exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Why would you even— What would you even get out of this?”
“Out of what?”
“Pretending to date me. Why do you care? What’s in it for you?”
Dr. Carlsen—Adam—opened his mouth, and for a moment Olive had the impression that he was going to say something important. But then he averted his gaze, and all that came out was “It would help you out.” He hesitated for a moment. “And I have my own reasons.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What reasons?”
“Reasons.”
“If it’s criminal, I’d rather not be involved.”
He smiled a bit. “It’s not.”
“If you don’t tell me, I have no choice but to assume that it entails kidnapping. Or arson. Or embezzlement.”
He seemed preoccupied for a moment, fingertips drumming against a large biceps. It considerably strained his shirt. “If I tell you, it cannot leave this room.”
“I think we can both agree that nothing that has happened in this room should ever leave it.”
“Good point,” he conceded. He paused. Sighed. Chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second. Sighed again.
“Okay,” he finally said, sounding like a man who knew that he was going to regret speaking the second he opened his mouth. “I’m considered a flight risk.”
“Flight risk?” God, he was a felon on parole. A jury of his peers had convicted him for crimes against grad students. He’d probably whacked someone on the head with a microscope for mislabeling peptide samples. “So it is something criminal.”
“What? No. The department suspects that I’m making plans to leave Stanford and move to another institution. Normally it wouldn’t bother me, but Stanford has decided to freeze my research funds.”
“Oh.” Not what she’d thought. Not at all. “Can they?”