“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?”
“That’s not the kind of fake relationship we’re having.”
He looked surprised. “It isn’t?”
“Nope.” She shook her head. “I would never fake-date a dude who thinks that he has to pay for my coffee just because he’s a dude.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I doubt a language exists in which the thing you just ordered could be referred to as ‘coffee.’？”
“Hey—”
“And it’s not about me being a ‘dude’？”—the word came out a touch pained—“but about you still being a grad student. And your yearly income.”