Книга the love hypothesis

03.09.202203.09.2022 admin 0 Comments

Книга the love hypothesis

Гипотеза любви

Бумажная книга, 18+

отсутствует на складе

Бумажная книга, 18+

О книге

Пытаясь убедить друзей, что с личной жизнью у нее все в порядке, Оливия целует первого попавшегося мужчину. Кто же знал, что это окажется доктор Карлсен — надменный, заносчивый тип, гроза всего факультета?

Слухи об их романе распространяются мгновенно, и пара договаривается поддерживать видимость отношений. а доктор Карлсен оказывается вовсе не таким уж неприятным. Оливия пока не понимает, чем обернется эта неожиданная новая дружба, но знает наверняка: как и всегда в ее жизни, все точно пойдет не по плану.

Этот легкий и остроумный роман наверняка понравится любителям романтических комедий. Обаятельные герои заставят посмеяться, а кто-то, возможно, даже немного влюбится в смелую героиню и загадочного героя. Удовольствие от чтения гарантировано.

Фишки книги

Абсолютный международный бестселлер.

В США первый тираж был раскуплен за 2 дня, продано более миллиона печатных копий

Выбор редакции Амазон в категории «Лучший роман»

Более 540 тысяч оценок и 70 тысяч отзывов на Goodreads

Права на книгу проданы в 25 стран

Бестселлер Amazon и New York Times

Для кого эта книга

Для читателей, которые любят романтические комедии.

Для тех, кто восхищается умными, красивыми и решительными героинями.

Для читателей, которые хотят прочувствовать химию между героями, которая происходит на страницах книги

Об авторах

Али Хейзелвуд родилась в Италии, жила в Японии и Германии, а потом переехала в США, чтобы получить PhD по нейробиологии. Недавно она начала преподавать в университете.

Али пишет романтические комедии, помещая типичных героев, ситуации и конфликты этого жанра в академическую среду. Она опубликовала пять книг, из которых наибольшей популярностью пользуется «Гипотеза любви». В свободное время Али любит смотреть сериалы в компании своего мужа и кошек.

Наталья Болдырева — писатель, переводчик, рецензент, преподаватель. Вела информатику и математические методы в лингвистике в ЮФУ. В 37 лет полностью ушла на фриланс. Тогда же начала учиться рисовать с нуля. Рисует как в традишке, так и в цифре. Читает все, было бы хорошо написано, в том числе и книги на английском.

Книга the love hypothesis

Моим женщинам в STEM: Кейт, Кейти, Хатун и Мар. Per aspera ad aspera. 1

Предположение или предполагаемое объяснение, сделанное на основе ограниченных доказательств, в качестве отправной точкой для дальнейшего расследования.

Пример: «Основываясь на имеющейся информации и собранных до сих пор данных, моя гипотеза заключается в том, что чем дальше я буду держаться от любви, тем лучше мне будет».

Честно говоря, Оливия немного сомневалась насчет аспирантуры.

Не потому, что ей не нравилась наука. (Она любила. Она любила науку. Наука была её фишкой.) И не потому, что у неё было много очевидных красных флажков. Она прекрасно понимала, что многолетняя работа в течение восьмидесятичасовой рабочей недели, за которую не платят, может плохо сказаться на её психическом здоровье. Что ночи, проведенные за работой перед горелкой Бунзена, чтобы открыть тривиальный кусочек знаний, возможно, не является ключом к счастью. Что посвятить свой ум и тело академической деятельности с редкими перерывами на кражу бубликов без присмотра, возможно, не самый лучший выбор.

Она всё прекрасно понимала, и всё же всё это её не волновало. Или, может быть, волновало, совсем чуть-чуть, но она могла с этим справиться. Что-то другое удерживало её от того, чтобы отдаться самому печально известному и высасывающему душу кругу ада (т. е. аспирантуре). Так продолжалось до тех пор, пока её не пригласили на собеседование на биологический факультет Стэнфорда, и она не наткнулась на «Парня».

Парень, чье имя она так и не узнала.

Парень, которого она встретила, наткнувшись вслепую на первый попавшийся туалет.

Парень, который спросил её: — Из любопытства, есть ли конкретная причина, по которой вы плачете в моей уборной?

Оливия пискнула. Она попыталась открыть глаза сквозь слезы, но ей это едва удалось. В её поле зрения всё было размыто. Всё, что она могла видеть, это водянистый контур — кто-то высокий, темноволосый, одетый в черное, и… да. Это был он.

— Я… это женский туалет? — заикаясь, спросила она.

Пауза. Тишина. А потом: — Нет. — Его голос был глубоким. Таким глубоким. Действительно глубоким. Мечтательно глубоким.

— Вполне, поскольку это туалет моей лаборатории.

Что ж. Он держал её там. — Мне так жаль. Вам нужно… Она жестом указала в сторону кабинки или места, где, по её мнению, находились кабинки. Глаза жгло, даже закрытые, и ей пришлось зажмуриться, чтобы притупить жжение. Она попыталась вытереть щеки рукавом, но материал её платья был дешевым и непрочным, он и вполовину не впитывал влагу, как настоящий хлопок. Ах, маленькие радости бедного человека.

— Мне просто нужно вылить этот реактив в канализацию, — сказал он, но она не услышала его движения. Может быть, потому что она загораживала раковину. Или, может быть, потому что он считал Оливия чудачкой и подумывал натравить на неё полицию кампуса. Это бы быстро положило конец её мечтам о докторской степени, не так ли? — Мы не используем его как уборную, только для утилизации отходов и мытья оборудования.

— О, простите. Я думала… — Плохо. Она плохо думала, это было её привычкой и проклятием.

— Вы в порядке? Он, должно быть, очень высокий. Его голос звучал так, словно доносился с высоты десяти футов 2 над ней.

— Конечно. Почему вы спрашиваете?

— Потому что вы плачете. В моей ванной.

— О, я не плачу. Ну, вроде как плачу, но это просто слезы, понимаете?

Она вздохнула, прислонившись к кафельной стене. — Это из-за контактных линз. Срок годности истек некоторое время назад, а они никогда не были такими уж хорошими. Они испортили мои глаза. Я сняла их, но… — она пожала плечами в надежде, что в его сторону. — Это займет некоторое время, прежде чем им станет лучше.

— Ты вставила просроченные линзы? — он звучал лично оскорбленным.

— Что значит «немного»?

— Я не знаю. Несколько лет?

— Что? — его согласные были резкими и точными. Четкие. Приятные.

— Только пару лет, я думаю.

— Всё нормально. Сроки годности — для слабых.

Резкий звук — что-то вроде фырканья. — Сроки годности созданы для того, чтобы я не нашел тебя рыдающей в углу моей ванной.

Если только этот чувак не был самим мистером Стэнфордом, ему действительно нужно перестать называть эту комнату своей ванной.

— Всё в порядке, — она махнула рукой. Она бы закатила глаза, если бы они не горели. — Жжение обычно длится всего несколько минут.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что делала это раньше?

Она нахмурилась. — Делала что?

— Вставляла просроченные линзы.

— Конечно. Они стоят недешево.

Хм. Хорошая мысль. — Эй, мы уже встречались? Может быть, вчера вечером, на ужине с будущими аспирантами?

— Тебя там не было?

— Не совсем моё место.

— Но бесплатная еда?

— Не стоит светских бесед.

Возможно, он сидел на диете, потому что какой аспирант может такое сказать? И Оливия была уверена, что он был аспирантом — надменный, снисходительный тон выдавал его с головой. Все аспиранты были такими: они считали себя лучше других только потому, что у них была сомнительная привилегия убивать плодовых мушек во имя науки за девяносто центов в час. В мрачном, темном аду академии аспиранты были самыми низкими существами и поэтому должны были убедить себя в том, что они лучшие. Оливия не была клиническим психологом, но это казалось довольно хрестоматийным защитным механизмом.

— Ты проходишь собеседование на место в программе? — спросил он.

— Да. Для группы биологов следующего года. Боже, её глаза горели. — А ты? — спросила она, прижимая к ним ладони.

— Как давно ты здесь?

— Здесь? — пауза. — Шесть лет. Плюс-минус.

— О. Значит, ты скоро выпускаешься?

Она уловила его колебания и мгновенно почувствовала себя виноватой. — Подожди, ты не должен мне говорить. Первое правило аспирантуры — не спрашивать о сроках защиты диссертаций других выпускников.

Мгновение. И еще одно. — Точно.

— Прости, — она пожалела, что не может его видеть. Социальное взаимодействие и так было нелегким делом; последнее, в чем она нуждалась, это в меньшем количестве подсказок. — Я не хотела испытывать твоих родителей семейными праздниками.

Он мягко засмеялся. — У тебя не получится.

— О, — она улыбнулась. — Раздражающие родители?

— И ещё более худшие Дни Благодарения.

— Вот что вы, американцы, получаете за выход из Содружества, — она протянула руку, как она надеялась, в его направлении. — Кстати, я Оливия. Как дерево. — Она уже начала задаваться вопросом, не представилась ли она только что сливным бачком, когда услышала, как он подошел ближе. Рука, сомкнувшаяся вокруг её руки, была сухой, теплой и такой большой, что могла бы охватить весь её кулак. Всё в нем должно быть огромным. Рост, пальцы, голос.

Это было не совсем неприятно.

— Ты не американка? — спросил он.

— Канадка. Слушай, если ты случайно поговоришь с кем-нибудь из приемной комиссии, не мог бы ты не упоминать о моей ошибке с линзами? Это может создать впечатление, что я не самый лучший кандидат.

— Ты так думаешь? — невозмутимо сказал он.

Если бы она могла, она бы на него посмотрела. Хотя, возможно, она и так неплохо справлялась с этой задачей, потому что он рассмеялся — просто раздражение, но Оливия это заметила. И ей это даже понравилось.

Он отпустил её, и она поняла, что схватила его за руку. Упс.

The Love Hypothesis

Али Хейзелвуд

As a third-year Ph.D. candidate, Olive Smith doesn’t believe in lasting romantic relationships—but her best friend does, and that’s what got her into this situation. Convincing Anh that Olive is dating and well on her way to a happily ever after was always going to take more than hand-wavy Jedi mind tricks: Scientists require proof. So, like any self-respecting biologist, Olive panics and kisses the first man she sees.

Лучшая рецензия на книгу

18 июня 2022 г. 14:01

Ух ты. С пролога история завораживает, как сказка. Что-то в тексте такое лёгкое, приятное, затягивающее в любовную историю Олив и Адама. Начинаются события за три года до поцелуя, который тянет на сексуальные домогательства от коллеги.

Без особой пошлости, но с сексуальным напряжением между героями, таким сильным, что ощущаешь своей кожей, по которой бегут мурашки. А после финала, так вообще мучаюсь с ужасным книжным похмельем. В итоге, прочитано ещё две новеллы автора.

Когда Олив пытается упростить для своей подруги отношения с парнем, который нравился ей самой, она целует первого попавшегося парня в коридоре исследовательского института.…

Год издания: 2021

Мягкая обложка, 352 страницы

Возрастные ограничения: 18+

Рецензии

18 июня 2022 г. 14:01

7 августа 2022 г. 20:02

Гипотеза любви

Али Хейзелвуд

7 августа 2022 г. 20:02

17 мая 2022 г. 15:23

Мне казалось что все вокруг меня говорят об этой книге и когда в очередной раз наткнулась вчера на рекомендацию, решила что уже нужно прочить. И вот сегодня я ее прочитала за вечер, так что как вы понимаете рекомендации оказались не пустыми.

Сначала я не понимала почему все в таком восторге от книги, это довольно простенький ромком, тут нет какого-то супер сюжета, особой интриги, сильного накала страстей или чего то такого. Просто приятные герои, оба немного гиковатые, если можно так сказать. Они увлечены наукой, это их главная страсть в жизни, и отношения для них не что-то обыденное, поэтому несмотря на то что Адаму 34, а Олив 26 (надеюсь я правильно запомнила сколько им лет), они выглядят немного подростково неловко и нелепо. Но это не странно, это правда воспринимается очень милым,…

12 июня 2022 г. 13:24

5 Поцелуй судьбы 🙂

Под влиянием многочисленной аудитории в ТикТок, которая просто восторгалась этой книгой, я решила прочесть её аннотацию. Прочитав, я поняла, что очень хочу узнать всю историю Оливии и Адама)

Скажу сразу, что читала я в любительском переводе и возможно некоторые детали из книги были упущены из-за проблем перевода, но как не крути книга мне понравилась.

История Адама и Оливии началась с поцелуя. Да да, именно с него! Когда Оливии отчаянно нужно было показать своей лучшей подруге, что она давным-давно не влюблена в своего бывшего, она поцеловала первого встречного попавшегося ей на глаза. Но так как было темно, когда она это сделала, она ещё не знала, что это был тот самый Адам Карлсен. Один из самых строгих профессоров в их университете, где она была аспиранткой)

После того поцелуя жизнь…

10 августа 2022 г. 09:14

1 Спойлер

Итак, приступил сразу к главному.
Для начала стоит сказать, что эта книга одно большое плохо обыгранное клише. У нас есть и главная героиня, Оливия, которая является серой мышью, но при этом невероятно умная и привлекательная(конечно, она этого не замечает), и главный герой, Адам, ОГРОМНЫЙ(там буквально описывается, как у Ол хрустят шейные позвонки, пока она запрокидывает голову, чтобы посмотреть гг в глаза) зрелый человек 34 лет, который шмыляет всех своих подопечных, но при этом очень робок в общении с гг, и, (как же без него), роковой злодей, который изгачально был хорошим другом гг, но по мере продвижения сюжета, мы узнаём, что тот всегда завидовал Адаму и хочет заполучить себе в постель Оливию.
Звучит уже, согласитесь, не очень.
А причина, по которой Адам согласился играть в отношения…

23 августа 2022 г. 23:45

5 «Основываясь на имеющейся информации и собранных данных, гипотеза заключается в том, что чем дальше держаться от любви, тем лучше будет»

Наконец-то! Я прочла эту прелесть, которая с завидным упорством пестрила во многих выпусках буктока и рекомендациях. И очень жалею, что не окунулась в неё раньше. Это будто сладкая ватка в парке аттракционов. Сладко, воздушно и очень своевременно.

Даже не ожидала такого. Полагала, что это будет хороший роман на вечерок в стиле Салли Торн, который забудется через неделю. А на деле это оказалась вдумчивая, очень забавная и горяченькая история, на которую точно должен покоситься Нетфликс.

И вот вроде всё банально: ребята договариваются о фиктивных отношениях, влюбляются и молчат о собственных секретиках. Секретики всплывают наружу, но быстро урегулируются хэппи эндом. Но весь сюжет подтягивает главный герой.

Адам — двухметровая мечта любой женщины. Вдумчивый, искренний, заботливый и пылкий.…

Гипотеза любви

Али Хейзелвуд

7 августа 2022 г. 20:02

17 мая 2022 г. 15:23

12 июня 2022 г. 13:24

5 Поцелуй судьбы 🙂

После того поцелуя жизнь…

10 августа 2022 г. 09:14

1 Спойлер

23 августа 2022 г. 23:45

5 «Основываясь на имеющейся информации и собранных данных, гипотеза заключается в том, что чем дальше держаться от любви, тем лучше будет»

Адам — двухметровая мечта любой женщины. Вдумчивый, искренний, заботливый и пылкий.…

Али Хейзелвуд: Гипотеза любви

The Love Hypothesis

Аннотация к книге «Гипотеза любви»

Мои щёки чуть не лопнули от умиления, но обо всем по порядку

Абсолютно восхитительно обыгранный троп «притворись моей парой». Угрюмый молодой профессор с чуткой душой, которого все боятся, милая девушка, которая хочет доказать, что ей плевать на бывшего парня. И роковой поцелуй. Смешивать, но не взбалтывать.

Клише? 100%. Но мама дорогая, какое приятное! Ведь дело совсем не в том, что это клише, а как его обыграть. У автора мастерски получилась добротная романтическая комедия с лёгкой щепоткой.

Мои щёки чуть не лопнули от умиления, но обо всем по порядку

Комичные диалоги, научные метафоры и много неловких ситуаций. Поднимает настроение на раз-два-три. Требовать чего-то невероятно гениального от книги было бы странно, поэтому оцениваю на десять сердечек в глазах из десяти.

Заранее сохраняем, если вам тоже хочется немного такого книжного счастья. Все будет! Ребята из МИФ выкупили права на эту книгу, так что скоро можно будет читать и на русском языке.

Кстати, эта книга изначально была фанфиком по фандому Звездных войн, Бен Соло (Кайло Рен)/ Рей, так что смело представляйте себе такую визуализацию героев. Скрыть

Книга the love hypothesis

Книга достойная, автору спасибо за доставленное удовольствие, рекомендую к прочтению

Ледокол спешит на помошь

Диапазонисто! Вся прямо-таки в утягивающих треволнениях. Увлечена медийной непредсказуемостью дня насущного. Не подводя итогов в день смерти Горбачева. Михаила Сергеевича. Это произошло! Часть нашего

Огни, камера, игра [ЛП]

Кухарка тайного советника

Прочитала с интересом! Книга понравилась!

Пешка для Ферзя

Прочитала с удовольствием!

Спасибо. Очень интересно и впечатляющий расказ.

Поющие в клоповнике [СИ]

The Love Hypothesis

Рейтинг: 0/5 (Всего голосов: 0)

Аннотация

That man is none other than Adam Carlsen, a young hotshot professor—and well-known ass. Which is why Olive is positively floored when Stanford’s reigning lab tyrant agrees to keep her charade a secret and be her fake boyfriend. But when a big science conference goes haywire, putting Olive’s career on the Bunsen burner, Adam surprises her again with his unyielding support and even more unyielding. six-pack abs.

Suddenly their little experiment feels dangerously close to combustion. And Olive discovers that the only thing more complicated than a hypothesis on love is putting her own heart under the microscope.

The Love Hypothesis

Посоветуйте книгу друзьям! Друзьям – скидка 10%, вам – рубли

First published in Great Britain in 2020

by Electric Monkey, an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

2 Minster Court, 10th floor, London EC3R 7BB

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

First e-book edition 2020

ISBN 978 1 4052 9694 6

Ebook ISBN 978 1 4052 9695 3

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont is not responsible for content hosted by third parties. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

Egmont takes its responsibility to the planet and its inhabitants very seriously. We aim to use papers from well-managed forests run by responsible suppliers.

For Louis – because I love you more than

any hypothesis can explain

Allow me to explain the plethora of ways in which my love life is screwed. You know, scientifically.

According to the Matching Hypothesis, two people are more likely to form a successful relationship if they’re equally desirable. This desirability can come in the form of wealth or fame, but it’s usually determined by physical attractiveness. Which is to say: most folks fall in love – and stay in love – with other folks on the same level of hotness.

Back in the sixties, social scientists held a Computer Match Dance which, despite its cool name, was nowhere near as fun and futurey as it sounds. Basically, four judges rated a bunch of participants according to their hotness, and these participants were randomly paired up for the dance (except no man was paired with a taller woman, because god forbid their masculinity be challenged in any way!). During an intermission, participants were asked to assess their date, and the results showed that partners with similar levels of hotness expressed the most liking for each other. Shocker, I know.

The sixties may as well be Tudor England, but unfortunately this theory holds true in the internet dating age. One recent study measured the hotness of sixty men and sixty women, and their interactions were monitored. While people at least attempted to contact others who were significantly hotter than they were (probably because the variable of face-to-face rejection had been eliminated, as is the appeal of all online dating), it was ultimately found that the person was way more likely to reply if they were closer to the same level of hotness.

No, you haven’t stumbled upon a social psychology journal by accident, like I did one heady night while researching Walster and Walster over a glass of 2003 Merlot.

All I’m saying is that if the Matching Hypothesis is anything to go by?

His name is Haruki, and he doesn’t know I exist. I know, I know. It’s a high-school cliché. But clichés are usually clichés because they’re true. And this particular cliché – nerdy-comma-unpopular-girl-falls-for-hot-guy – is only ever a recipe for disaster.

Haruki bleeds charisma. You know the type. A jock who walks the halls surrounded by disciples like he’s the second coming of Christ, or whatever. His family is basically royalty in my small town, since they own a multi-million dollar hotel chain that dominates most of the midwest. And it helps that Haruki is practically a supermodel, despite having the same basic haircut as every other attractive teenage boy in America. Plus we’re in all the same AP science classes, and while he’s hardly at the top of the pack, he is whip-smart.

So, to sum up: Haruki Ito? Way out of my league. Like, we’re not even playing the same sport.

It should come as no surprise to you that I’m not the only girl at Edgewood High who’s madly in love with Haruki. And, as per the unrequited love trope, I’m utterly convinced I’m the only one who *gets* the real him. Despite, you know, him not knowing I actually exist.

(I cannot emphasize this last part enough. I could perform an elaborate macarena in front of his desk right now, and he’d stare straight ahead as though the light was simply bending around me. Maybe it is. I can never know for sure.)

Today we’re in double AP Physics, which sounds like a cruel and unusual punishment to the normal high-schooler, but seeing as I’m not a normal high-schooler, this is my idea of utopia.

I adore science. Not so much biology, because it’s all kinda messy and unreliable and oftentimes smelly. Or chemistry, because I still have scar tissue on my left hand following a bunsen burner incident a few years back. But physics? Physics is my dirty talk. It’s clean and neat, and simple and complex, and it makes perfect sense to me. It’s one of the few things that does. So, if you ever want to lure me into the boudoir, talk Newton to me.

Mrs Torres is delivering a lesson on the behavior of gas at room temperature, but since I’ve been pretty much fluent in thermodynamics – and most other aspects of classical mechanics – since I was thirteen, she’s been giving me college-level modern physics papers to quietly work through during class, providing I a) complete all the regular homework too, and b) don’t tell any of my classmates. So I’m doing some reading around antimatter and barely paying attention to the lesson when Haruki pipes up.

At the sound of his voice, something skips in my chest. (Upon reading this sentence, my very literal dad will almost definitely have me tested for arrhythmia.)

‘But Mrs Torres,’ Haruki says, interrupting her mid-flow. She nods for him to go on. ‘Near absolute zero, the Maxwell-Boltzmann distribution fails to account for the observed behavior of the gas. So surely we should instead be using modern distributions, such as Fermi-Dirac or Bose-Einstein?’

I lay down my pencil with interest. Torres wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. The classroom is sweltering in freak late-September heat. ‘That’s correct, Haruki.’

He frowns and asks, in a way that entirely suggests he already knows the answer and just wants to make a point, ‘So why aren’t we using such distributions?’

She sighs, swatting away a buzzing fly. ‘Because quantum physics is not taught as part of this state’s high-school curriculum.’

‘Why not?’ Haruki persists, like a dog with a bone. A really, really sexy dog. Not that I’m weirdly into dogs, or anything. Anyway.

The other kids shift restlessly in their hard, plastic chairs, silently willing their classmate to drop it. Their impatience is almost palpable, but drop it he does not. Instead he adds, ‘If we can handle it, why not teach it?’

Torres presses her lips together and sighs again. It’s two in the afternoon, and only getting hotter. Ah, climate change. I don’t blame her for getting irritable, although Haruki has a point – a point my dads have argued time after time with the school board.

But patiently as ever, she says, ‘Because truly getting to grips with some of these concepts requires an incredibly advanced level of math. Research shows that your average seventeen-year-old is unlikely to achieve such a level.’

Haruki scoffs. ‘So what, we dumb down the syllabus to suit the lowest common denominator?’

I agree with what he’s saying, but he’s being kind of an ass about it. It’s not Torres’ personal fault.

Torres leans back against her desk and pinches the bridge of her nose. She’s wearing heeled pumps, a tight blouse and even tighter pencil skirt. I feel sweaty and uncomfortable just imagining wearing something like that. Right now I’m extremely grateful that our school’s lax uniform policy allows for shorts and flip-flops. My toenails are basically a hate crime, but the open air setup is a life-saver.

Patiently, Torres answers, ‘I’m sorry, Haruki, but that’s just the way it is. So if we could bring our attention back to –’

‘Well, it’s clearly not the way it is,’ Haruki snaps, laying down his pencil. ‘Because Caro Murphy seems to be above learning classical mechanics. Unlike the rest of us.’

At the sound of my name, I freeze in my chair.

Well, kind of my name. It’s Caro Kerber-Murphy. But whatever.

Everyone else in the class bar Haruki snaps around to stare at me, gauging my humiliation levels following the public call-out.

I mentally flail for an explanation as to how Haruki knows two-thirds of my name. The assumption I’d made regarding my light-bending skills has been blown out of the water.

Since the R&D bods over at Amazon clearly give no shits about my predicament, I do what all introverted science nerds would do in this scenario: pretend there’s no outside world and stare defiantly at the CERN experiment outlined on the page in front of me.

Through the roaring pulse in my ears, I vaguely hear Torres say, ‘See me after class, Mr Ito. We’ll discuss it then.’

My heartbeat takes a good half hour to return to normal cardiovascular function. In that time, I obsessively analyze the events of the past few minutes.

Firstly, it transpires that Haruki Ito is in fact aware of my existence, which is a significant development in itself.

Secondly, it appears that said awareness is founded on disdain for the special treatment I receive. Which, you know, fair enough. I’d be similarly pissed.

But the lovesick puppy in me is now worried. What if aforementioned disdain overrides any and all romantic feelings in the past, present and future, and in all dimensions up to and including those we have not yet discovered?

When final bell rings, I quickly chuck pencils and erasers back into my leather pencil-case and sling my backpack over one shoulder, into the neat dent carved from years of textbook-hauling. Seriously, being a devoted lifelong nerd has permanently messed up my posture and overall anatomy. I am essentially Quasimodo, if Quasimodo were an expert in kinematics. Maybe he was. We just don’t know.

Exactly as devoid of interest as I’d expected. It’s soon embarrassingly apparent that he wasn’t clearing his throat to get my attention. He was just clearing his throat. Because mucus. And, like an idiot, I stopped walking and gazed hopefully up at him.

He shoots me a look as if to say, ‘What on earth are you staring at, you insignificant gnat?’ and carts himself off to talk to Torres.

I shuffle meekly away, downbeat and dejected. By the time I’ve made it to my best friend’s locker, I’m pretty sure Eeyore has replaced the bald eagle as my official patronus.

‘Hey, girl. What’s up?’ Keiko asks. Her sunflower-print skater dress and blue ombre hair are an assault on the eyes but, like, in a good way. She’s plugged into purple headphones, some new indie band playing in her ears, so she barely hears my mumbled reply.

Haruki knows who I am. He just doesn’t care.

Keiko walks me to chess club. School’s basically deserted, but she knows I still don’t like to talk about anything personal while wandering the hallways – seriously, do you know how high the chances are of being heard? – so she just takes my mind off the situation by talking about a gig she’s playing at the weekend.

Her mom’s finally given her the green light to perform in drinking establishments with her rock band, which has opened up a whole new world of venues for her. She’s only seventeen, but she has the voice of an old soul. And she writes all of the band’s songs. What I’m trying to say is that my best friend is way too cool to be hanging out with me.

And just like that she’s off on another tangent. It’s how our friendship has operated for over a decade. She talks, I listen. Mostly. And I’m okay with it. Mostly.

We walk past Emily and Ethan, the Griffin twins, as they check the school play audition times on the noticeboard. They both look up adoringly at Keiko as she passes – then exchange daggers when they realize what the other is doing.

Keiko has this magnetic energy. It’s not the fact she’s a rock star, or the fact she’s done some plus-size modeling, or her quirky fashion sense and killer hair. It’s all of those things, and something else entirely. A spark you can’t put your finger on.

Keiko leaves me at the door with a hug, all warmth and stale cigarettes and sweet perfume. ‘Go kill some kings, or whatever.’ She says this every single time I play chess.

She’s one of those people who proudly does not engage with nerd culture. I’ve tried telling her that superhero comics and board games are totally mainstream now, and that rejecting them ultimately means she’s the one who’s out of touch with the zeitgeist, but that put her off even more. She’s so edgy I can barely keep up with what does or does not constitute a Cool Thing.

I’m one of the last to arrive, and almost everyone is already set up in a pair by the time I abandon my backpack and scan the room for a partner. Lucy Cox and Everett Clark hold hands over their board, gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes, talking about new set pieces they’ve been learning. Madison Spencer and Guadalupe Martinez kiss over their warring queens, completely oblivious to the room around them.

God. When did chess club get so horny?

In fairness to the Matching Hypothesis, both couples are approximately the same level of objective hotness and social status. And I can’t fight the twinge of jealousy. In a completely pointless exercise in self-flagellation, I catch myself wondering what kind of couple Haruki and I would be. Over-the-top PDA? Fake-arguing while sparks fly? Nerding out over mutual interests?

Doesn’t matter. The Matching Hypothesis actively forbids us from ever dating.

I’m not sure why the Matching Hypothesis plays on my mind so much, to be honest. I stumbled upon that first article at a time in my life where I felt totally and utterly unlovable – when Gabriela and Ryan first started dating, and Keiko was at the height of her experimentation stage. Maybe that’s why I latched on to the theory like a barnacle to a speedboat. I liked having a reason – a concrete, scientific reason – to explain why I wasn’t in the same place they were, no matter how much I wanted to be. It gave me something to blame beyond myself.

Sighing deeply, I force myself back into the present. When I see the only person left unmatched with a chess partner, I nearly turn and walk straight back out.

Mateo grins as he watches me scan the room, waiting for the moment I realize my fate. When I try and fail to disguise my horror, he saunters over with a cocky grin.

‘Caro Kerber. Looks like it’s you and me.’ Seriously, what is it with people only knowing two-thirds of my name? He drags a chair back along the ground, its legs screeching against the linoleum. ‘Pull up a pew. I don’t bite.’

Mateo Gutierrez is one of the most opinionated homo sapiens on this earth. He’s president of the debate team, and he’s renowned for having no concrete stance on, well, anything. His actual genuine views are lucid, whether political, social or ethical, but what does not change is how passionately he’s prepared to argue on any given subject, from any given side of the debate. It’s quite impressive. You know, if you find contentious, belligerent jerks impressive. Which I do not. At all.

‘Alright,’ I grumble, resigned to spending at least the next fifteen minutes in his presence. He’s one of Gabriela’s childhood friends, so I attempt civility at all times. ‘Do your worst. And it’s Kerber-Murphy.’

We’ve clashed during chess club on many the occasion. He usually beats me, with his calculated precision and meticulously executed set moves, but there have been a few times he’s knocked over his own king in frustration. I’m a hideously defensive player, and fortify my pieces in such a way that they’re impossible to penetrate. It drives him up the wall. And to be honest, it drives me up the wall too. I wish I was confident enough to push for bold attacks and risky sacrifices, but I’m not. I play it safe, always.

This time, it only takes a few moves for Mateo to launch his verbal assault. ‘Coward. Do you know how boring you are to play against? I would say it’s like watching paint dry, but that’s offensive to paint.’ He launches an assault with a knight and a bishop, but I’ve arranged my frontline so there are no hanging pieces. He groans in frustration.

I find myself in a position I so often land in: everything is so neat and impenetrable that I don’t want to move anything when my turn comes around. I reluctantly shuffle a pawn forward. Mateo’s eyes light up, and he swoops into the gap I’ve been forced to create. His eyes smirk, even though that’s technically not a thing. It’s the only way to describe it. He’s obviously delighted with himself.

Said grin soon vanishes when he realizes I’ve forked his bishop and his knight, which is unfortunately nowhere near as dirty as it sounds. Just means he’s about to lose one of them.

‘Damn,’ he grumbles. ‘Lucked your way into that one, didn’t you?’

I maintain a neutral expression. ‘Totally. Pure luck.’

It’s a little cooler in this classroom, since it’s north-facing and all, but I’m still feeling clammy and uncomfortable. There’s almost definitely going to be a sweaty assprint on this seat when I stand up.

Apart from a whirring ceiling fan, the room is graveyard quiet, and ripe with the sound of concentration. Until Mateo pipes up again, since he basically has to be making some kind of noise at all times, and starts humming an annoying tune from a commercial I can’t quite place. If he’s trying to put me off, it’s working. I can barely focus on the board, I’m so hot and bothered.

But then I see it: the intention behind his last couple of moves. He’s visibly angry when I castle just in time to stop him from skewering my queen to my king.

What I want to say in response: ‘I’ll skewer your ass to your face, you pugnacious prick!’

What I actually say: ‘Please be quiet, Mateo. Some of us are trying to concentrate.’

Look, I don’t mean to sound like Hermione Granger every minute of the livelong day. It just happens.

We play for a while longer. I try to regroup and fortify my defenses, but his unrelenting attacks punish my piece count. It’s not going great, but at least I don’t have any brainspace left to think about Haruki and our awkward encounter.

After ten more minutes, I’m not surprised when he promotes a pawn and effortlessly checkmates me.

At this point Mateo could choose to be gracious in victory, but as it happens, that is not the path he takes. ‘Suck it, Kerber! What’s that now? Eleven games to three? Twelve? I lose track.’ He whistles unnecessarily. ‘You need to grow some lady balls. Launch an attack. Maybe take your queen out for a joyride every once in a while. Or, you know, keep making a dick of yourself. Your call.’

I swear to god, I’m going to shove a rook so far up his ass he’ll be able to taste wood varnish on the back of his throat.

By the time I leave school at five-thirty, the temperature is vaguely less hellish, so my walk home is bearable at least. Despite the absurd amount of thunderflies in the air.

I live a couple miles from school, which I diligently cover on foot every single day on account of Dad #1’s obsession with car accidents. If you ever need to know hard statistics on how many people are killed in crashes each year, he’s your guy. As far as fetishes go it’s pretty niche, but I’d rather his search history showed repeated hits on government data sites than on hardcore pornography. You take the wins where you can.

At least the route home is pleasant. My neighborhood is a nice one; my dads are both tenured academics, so we live in the more affluent area of town. However, when you’re a chronic overthinker, walking four miles a day with just your own thoughts for company is a special kind of hell. And before you suggest podcasts or audiobooks, yes, I have tried them. Doesn’t work. My cogitation is louder than any headphones can plausibly go. I experience the audial equivalent of reaching the end of a page, then realizing you’ve absorbed precisely nothing because you’re so busy fixating on an embarrassing thing you said back in kindergarten.

Tonight is no exception. As I pass preppy spandex-clad joggers, Labradoodles in appalling Swarovski collars, and an implausible number of 4x4s, all I can do is replay the painful encounter with Haruki over and over again.

The public call-out. The subsequent loaded silence. The heat – oh god, the heat. Like my cheeks were being flame-grilled and served as the steak portion of a surf ‘n’ turf.

As if that weren’t bad enough, the ass-clenching moment when I stopped at the sound of his throat-clearing, and it became immediately, excruciatingly apparent that he was not clamoring for my attention.

And the look. The look he gave me – like I was nothing to him. Which I guess I am.

I take my time ambling home, in no rush to discuss what I learned at school today with my dads over dinner, like I do every night. Blame the heat, or the emotions, or the ABSURD QUANTITY OF THUNDERFLIES, but for whatever reason, my heels are dragging.

Argh. Why do I even care so much about Haruki’s lack of interest? I’m used to the whole unrequited-love deal. It’s not new to me. I should be better at handling it by now.

Because it’s definitely a pattern. A pattern with no outliers, no anomalies, no exceptions. Just data point after data point after data point of rejection. No, not even rejection. Rejection would require the objects of my affection to notice me enough to reject me in the first place.

Actually, there is one almost-exception. Kevin Cartwright. He’s a couple years older than me, and we had a string of hookups over the summer. It started with a drunken one-night stand at a house party – classy way to lose your V-plates, right? – and became a regular occurrence whenever he’d had so much as a sip of beer. But every time I texted him sober, he ghosted me. He only ever wanted to hook up when it was on his terms, and when his blood-alcohol level was past the legal limit.

One night – when he was super wasted – he told me he was still hung up on his ex, and that it wouldn’t be fair to me to turn whatever we had going into something more. And even though I was starting to kind of like the guy, I tried my best to bury whatever feelings I had for him. I knew deep down it wasn’t going anywhere.

Then he went away to college a few weeks back, at the same time as my older brother, and I haven’t heard a peep since. Guess I was just a way to kill time, when the lights were low and the beer goggles were firmly in place.

I sigh, inhaling warm summer air. The streets are quiet, even by my sleepy town’s standards. Nearby, an elderly man is cutting the grass with his shirt off. A grey-haired woman watches lovingly from the window. And, to be fair to the Matching Hypothesis, they are precisely the same level of hotness. Figures.

Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I press the home button. My lock screen lights up: nada. No messages, no missed calls. Keiko will be rehearsing for tonight’s gig, and Gabriela will be tutoring after-school Spanish. She speaks, like, seven languages, has a makeup Insta with a gazillion followers, and bakes the best banana bread in the literal world.

Then she’ll be hanging out with her boyfriend, Ryan. They’ve been together since freshman year and are basically the same entity at this point. In fact, I’m not entirely sure she hasn’t absorbed his personality via osmosis. She had some actual points to make about the NFL draft the other day. Still, they’re pretty cute. He’s always picking up egg and cheese bagels for her breakfast, holding up her ring light so she can take the perfect selfies, making her study playlists on Spotify.

When I think of being with Haruki, that’s what I imagine. Not huge, grand gestures of rapturous romance. Not even necessarily the physical aspects of having a boyfriend. Just small, everyday kindnesses that let you know you’re loved.

Hey, how are you? Are you going to Steph’s party this weekend? Hope to see you there. *beer emoji*

Kevin! Fancy a drink tomorrow night? My dads are out of town. And there’s red wine in the refrigerator. (I know. They’re criminals. Room temperature or bust.)

Hey! Just a quick message to say I hope your big move to Penn State goes well. Hit me up when you’re next home and we can catch up.

My skin crawls, reading them back. But they’re not that awful, are they? I obsessed so hard over striking the right balance between casual and flirty. Between upbeat and sarcastic. Between perfect and, well, perfect. And it still wasn’t enough to get his attention.

I’m about to shove my phone away when, as it always does, temptation strikes. What if this is the one time Kevin will reply? What if he’s drunk at a daytime frat party, and I send a message at the perfect moment, and he actually responds? It would soothe my self-hatred, if only for a moment. And hey, if he ignores me – what’s new? It can’t suck any more than it already does.

So I do it. I fire off a quick, breezy text, watch as the ‘delivered’ sign appears, and bury the phone back into my pocket. Maybe if I don’t look for a while, there will magically be a message waiting for me later tonight.

My pretty, faux-Edwardian house is detached and modestly sized. Vati – Dad #2 – is out front gardening, and as I’m walking up the driveway I almost don’t see him. He’s about two inches from the soil, hacking away manically at the border with a pair of secateurs. He’s a godawful gardener. Like, imagine you gave a donkey a pair of scissors and told it to go to town on your flowerbeds. That’s how our garden looks.

The Love Hypothesis

Али Хейзелвуд

7 августа 2022 г. 20:02

17 мая 2022 г. 15:23

12 июня 2022 г. 13:24

5 Поцелуй судьбы 🙂

После того поцелуя жизнь…

10 августа 2022 г. 09:14

1 Спойлер

23 августа 2022 г. 23:45

5 «Основываясь на имеющейся информации и собранных данных, гипотеза заключается в том, что чем дальше держаться от любви, тем лучше будет»

Адам — двухметровая мечта любой женщины. Вдумчивый, искренний, заботливый и пылкий.…

Гипотеза любви

Али Хейзелвуд

Лучшая рецензия на книгу

18 июня 2022 г. 14:01

Год издания: 2022

Возрастные ограничения: 18+

Рецензии

18 июня 2022 г. 14:01

7 августа 2022 г. 20:02

The Love Hypothesis

Али Хейзелвуд

7 августа 2022 г. 20:02

Я безуспешно пытаюсь расширить свою читательскую палитру и найти любовный роман, который мне понравится. Эта попытка с треском провалилась. Я работаю в лаборатории, я вирусолог. И я надеялась, что любовный роман в знакомых…

17 мая 2022 г. 15:23

12 июня 2022 г. 13:24

5 Поцелуй судьбы 🙂

Скажу сразу, что читала я в…

10 августа 2022 г. 09:14

1 Спойлер

23 августа 2022 г. 23:45

5 «Основываясь на имеющейся информации и собранных данных, гипотеза заключается в том, что чем дальше держаться от любви, тем лучше будет»

24 июля 2022 г. 08:06

Пожалуй начну с того, что я очень часто видела положительные отзывы на эту книгу и поэтому я тоже решилась прочесть её и не зря. Книга не прям вау, как говорили другие, но эмоции она вызывает положительные.

19 августа 2022 г. 00:26

4.5 I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.

29 июля 2022 г. 17:52

4 Спойлер Гипотеза или аксиома

18 июня 2022 г. 08:24

5 А на что вы готовы пойти ради счастья дорогого вам человека?

Олив ради своей лучшей подруги сначала готова соврать, а потом и впутаться в фальшивые отношения, ведь слухи в научной лаборатории Стэнфордского университета распространяются с огромной скоростью.

Фальшивые отношения порождают…

Книга the love hypothesis

Моим женщинам в STEM: Кейт, Кейти, Хатун и Мар. Per aspera ad aspera. 1

Честно говоря, Оливия немного сомневалась насчет аспирантуры.

Парень, чье имя она так и не узнала.

Парень, которого она встретила, наткнувшись вслепую на первый попавшийся туалет.

— Я… это женский туалет? — заикаясь, спросила она.

— Вполне, поскольку это туалет моей лаборатории.

— О, простите. Я думала… — Плохо. Она плохо думала, это было её привычкой и проклятием.

— Конечно. Почему вы спрашиваете?

— Потому что вы плачете. В моей ванной.

— О, я не плачу. Ну, вроде как плачу, но это просто слезы, понимаете?

— Ты вставила просроченные линзы? — он звучал лично оскорбленным.

— Что значит «немного»?

— Я не знаю. Несколько лет?

— Что? — его согласные были резкими и точными. Четкие. Приятные.

— Только пару лет, я думаю.

— Всё нормально. Сроки годности — для слабых.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что делала это раньше?

Она нахмурилась. — Делала что?

— Вставляла просроченные линзы.

— Конечно. Они стоят недешево.

Хм. Хорошая мысль. — Эй, мы уже встречались? Может быть, вчера вечером, на ужине с будущими аспирантами?

— Тебя там не было?

— Не совсем моё место.

— Но бесплатная еда?

— Не стоит светских бесед.

— Ты проходишь собеседование на место в программе? — спросил он.

— Да. Для группы биологов следующего года. Боже, её глаза горели. — А ты? — спросила она, прижимая к ним ладони.

— Как давно ты здесь?

— Здесь? — пауза. — Шесть лет. Плюс-минус.

— О. Значит, ты скоро выпускаешься?

Мгновение. И еще одно. — Точно.

Он мягко засмеялся. — У тебя не получится.

— О, — она улыбнулась. — Раздражающие родители?

— И ещё более худшие Дни Благодарения.

Это было не совсем неприятно.

— Ты не американка? — спросил он.

— Ты так думаешь? — невозмутимо сказал он.

Он отпустил её, и она поняла, что схватила его за руку. Упс.

Книга the love hypothesis

Моим женщинам в STEM: Кейт, Кейти, Хатун и Мар. Per aspera ad aspera. 1

Честно говоря, Оливия немного сомневалась насчет аспирантуры.

Парень, чье имя она так и не узнала.

Парень, которого она встретила, наткнувшись вслепую на первый попавшийся туалет.

— Я… это женский туалет? — заикаясь, спросила она.

— Вполне, поскольку это туалет моей лаборатории.

— О, простите. Я думала… — Плохо. Она плохо думала, это было её привычкой и проклятием.

— Конечно. Почему вы спрашиваете?

— Потому что вы плачете. В моей ванной.

— О, я не плачу. Ну, вроде как плачу, но это просто слезы, понимаете?

— Ты вставила просроченные линзы? — он звучал лично оскорбленным.

— Что значит «немного»?

— Я не знаю. Несколько лет?

— Что? — его согласные были резкими и точными. Четкие. Приятные.

— Только пару лет, я думаю.

— Всё нормально. Сроки годности — для слабых.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что делала это раньше?

Она нахмурилась. — Делала что?

— Вставляла просроченные линзы.

— Конечно. Они стоят недешево.

Хм. Хорошая мысль. — Эй, мы уже встречались? Может быть, вчера вечером, на ужине с будущими аспирантами?

— Тебя там не было?

— Не совсем моё место.

— Но бесплатная еда?

— Не стоит светских бесед.

— Ты проходишь собеседование на место в программе? — спросил он.

— Да. Для группы биологов следующего года. Боже, её глаза горели. — А ты? — спросила она, прижимая к ним ладони.

— Как давно ты здесь?

— Здесь? — пауза. — Шесть лет. Плюс-минус.

— О. Значит, ты скоро выпускаешься?

Мгновение. И еще одно. — Точно.

Он мягко засмеялся. — У тебя не получится.

— О, — она улыбнулась. — Раздражающие родители?

— И ещё более худшие Дни Благодарения.

Это было не совсем неприятно.

— Ты не американка? — спросил он.

— Ты так думаешь? — невозмутимо сказал он.

Он отпустил её, и она поняла, что схватила его за руку. Упс.

Книга the love hypothesis

Моим женщинам в STEM: Кейт, Кейти, Хатун и Мар. Per aspera ad aspera. 1

Честно говоря, Оливия немного сомневалась насчет аспирантуры.

Парень, чье имя она так и не узнала.

Парень, которого она встретила, наткнувшись вслепую на первый попавшийся туалет.

— Я… это женский туалет? — заикаясь, спросила она.

— Вполне, поскольку это туалет моей лаборатории.

— О, простите. Я думала… — Плохо. Она плохо думала, это было её привычкой и проклятием.

— Конечно. Почему вы спрашиваете?

— Потому что вы плачете. В моей ванной.

— О, я не плачу. Ну, вроде как плачу, но это просто слезы, понимаете?

— Ты вставила просроченные линзы? — он звучал лично оскорбленным.

— Что значит «немного»?

— Я не знаю. Несколько лет?

— Что? — его согласные были резкими и точными. Четкие. Приятные.

— Только пару лет, я думаю.

— Всё нормально. Сроки годности — для слабых.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что делала это раньше?

Она нахмурилась. — Делала что?

— Вставляла просроченные линзы.

— Конечно. Они стоят недешево.

Хм. Хорошая мысль. — Эй, мы уже встречались? Может быть, вчера вечером, на ужине с будущими аспирантами?

— Тебя там не было?

— Не совсем моё место.

— Но бесплатная еда?

— Не стоит светских бесед.

— Ты проходишь собеседование на место в программе? — спросил он.

— Да. Для группы биологов следующего года. Боже, её глаза горели. — А ты? — спросила она, прижимая к ним ладони.

— Как давно ты здесь?

— Здесь? — пауза. — Шесть лет. Плюс-минус.

— О. Значит, ты скоро выпускаешься?

Мгновение. И еще одно. — Точно.

Он мягко засмеялся. — У тебя не получится.

— О, — она улыбнулась. — Раздражающие родители?

— И ещё более худшие Дни Благодарения.

Это было не совсем неприятно.

— Ты не американка? — спросил он.

— Ты так думаешь? — невозмутимо сказал он.

Он отпустил её, и она поняла, что схватила его за руку. Упс.

Книга the love hypothesis

Моим женщинам в STEM: Кейт, Кейти, Хатун и Мар. Per aspera ad aspera. 1

Честно говоря, Оливия немного сомневалась насчет аспирантуры.

Парень, чье имя она так и не узнала.

Парень, которого она встретила, наткнувшись вслепую на первый попавшийся туалет.

— Я… это женский туалет? — заикаясь, спросила она.

— Вполне, поскольку это туалет моей лаборатории.

— О, простите. Я думала… — Плохо. Она плохо думала, это было её привычкой и проклятием.

— Конечно. Почему вы спрашиваете?

— Потому что вы плачете. В моей ванной.

— О, я не плачу. Ну, вроде как плачу, но это просто слезы, понимаете?

— Ты вставила просроченные линзы? — он звучал лично оскорбленным.

— Что значит «немного»?

— Я не знаю. Несколько лет?

— Что? — его согласные были резкими и точными. Четкие. Приятные.

— Только пару лет, я думаю.

— Всё нормально. Сроки годности — для слабых.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что делала это раньше?

Она нахмурилась. — Делала что?

— Вставляла просроченные линзы.

— Конечно. Они стоят недешево.

Хм. Хорошая мысль. — Эй, мы уже встречались? Может быть, вчера вечером, на ужине с будущими аспирантами?

— Тебя там не было?

— Не совсем моё место.

— Но бесплатная еда?

— Не стоит светских бесед.

— Ты проходишь собеседование на место в программе? — спросил он.

— Да. Для группы биологов следующего года. Боже, её глаза горели. — А ты? — спросила она, прижимая к ним ладони.

— Как давно ты здесь?

— Здесь? — пауза. — Шесть лет. Плюс-минус.

— О. Значит, ты скоро выпускаешься?

Мгновение. И еще одно. — Точно.

Он мягко засмеялся. — У тебя не получится.

— О, — она улыбнулась. — Раздражающие родители?

— И ещё более худшие Дни Благодарения.

Это было не совсем неприятно.

— Ты не американка? — спросил он.

— Ты так думаешь? — невозмутимо сказал он.

Он отпустил её, и она поняла, что схватила его за руку. Упс.

The Love Hypothesis

Лора Стивен

Physics genius Caro Kerber-Murphy knows she’s smart. With straight As and a college scholarship already in the bag, she’s meeting her two dads’ colossal expectations and then some. But there’s one test she’s never quite been able to ace: love. And when, in a particularly desperate moment, Caro discovers a (definitely questionable) scientific breakthrough that promises to make you irresistible to everyone around you, she wonders if this could be the key.

What happens next will change everything Caro thought she knew about chemistry – in the lab and in love. Is hot guy Haruki with her of his own free will? Are her feelings for her best…

Лучшая рецензия на книгу

24 марта 2021 г. 19:18

такое чувство будто авторша сама не знает о чем эта книга, в описании нам обещают любовь, сюжетная линия с феромонами не раскрывается, главная героиня абсолютно пустая и глупая, то что произошло в конце не логично, мне кажется было туда впихнуто потому что будет круто звучать, Харуки о котором нам буквально пишут в описании мы вообще не получаем, страниц 10 не больше посвящены ему и то не раскрывается он как персонаж вообще,вообщем пустая трата времени, книга ни о чем

Книга the love hypothesis

Praise for The Love Hypothesis

—New York Times bestselling author Christina Lauren

“Funny, sexy, and smart. Ali Hazelwood did a terrific job with The Love Hypothesis.”

—New York Times bestselling author Mariana Zapata

—New York Times bestselling author Jessica Clare

“A beautifully written romantic comedy with a heroine you will instantly fall in love with, The Love Hypothesis is destined to earn a place on your keeper shelf.”

—Elizabeth Everett, author of A Lady’s Formula for Love

Published by Berkley

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Hazelwood, Ali, author.

Title: The love hypothesis / Ali Hazelwood.

Description: First edition. | New York: Jove, 2021.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020057346 (print) | LCCN 2020057347 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593336823 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593336830 (ebook)

Subjects: GSAFD: Love stories.

Classification: LCC PS3608.A98845 L68 2021 (print) | LCC PS3608.A98845 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020057346

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020057347

First Edition: September 2021

Cover illustration by lilithsaur

Book design by Tiffany Estreicher, adapted for ebook by Estelle Malmed

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To my women in STEM: Kate, Caitie, Hatun, and Mar. Per aspera ad aspera.

Praise for The Love Hypothesis

Excerpt from LOVE ON THE BRAIN

About the Author

A supposition or proposed explanation made on the basis of limited evidence, as a starting point for further investigation.

Example: “Based on the available information and the data hitherto collected, my hypothesis is that the farther away I stay from love, the better off I will be.”

Frankly, Olive was a bit on the fence about this whole grad school thing.

Not because she didn’t like science. (She did. She loved science. Science was her thing.) And not because of the truckload of obvious red flags. She was well aware that committing to years of unappreciated, underpaid eighty-hour workweeks might not be good for her mental health. That nights spent toiling away in front of a Bunsen burner to uncover a trivial slice of knowledge might not be the key to happiness. That devoting her mind and body to academic pursuits with only infrequent breaks to steal unattended bagels might not be a wise choice.

She was well aware, and yet none of it worried her. Or maybe it did, a tiny bit, but she could deal. It was something else that held her back from surrendering herself to the most notorious and soul-sucking circle of hell (i.e., a Ph.D. program). Held her back, that is, until she was invited to interview for a spot in Stanford’s biology department, and came across The Guy.

The Guy whose name she never really got.

The Guy she met after stumbling blindly into the first bathroom she could find.

The Guy who asked her, “Out of curiosity, is there a specific reason you’re crying in my restroom?”

A pause. Silence. And then: “Nope.” His voice was deep. So deep. Really deep. Dreamy deep.

“Fairly, since this is my lab’s bathroom.”

“I just need to pour this reagent down the drain,” he said, but she didn’t hear him move. Maybe because she was blocking the sink. Or maybe because he thought Olive was a weirdo and was contemplating siccing the campus police on her. That would put a brutally quick end to her Ph.D. dreams, wouldn’t it? “We don’t use this as a restroom, just to dispose of waste and wash equipment.”

“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?”

“You put in expired contacts?” He sounded personally offended.

“Just a little expired.”

“I don’t know. A few years?”

“What?” His consonants were sharp and precise. Crisp. Pleasant.

“Only just a couple, I think.”

“Just a couple of years?”

“It’s okay. Expiration dates are for the weak.”

A sharp sound—some kind of snort. “Expiration dates are so I don’t find you weeping in the corner of my bathroom.”

Unless this dude was Mr. Stanford himself, he really needed to stop calling this his bathroom.

“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?”

She frowned. “Done what?”

“Put in expired contacts.”

“Of course. Contacts are not cheap.”

“Neither are eyes.”

Humph. Good point. “Hey, have we met? Maybe last night, at the recruitment dinner with prospective Ph.D. students?”

“You weren’t there?”

“Not really my scene.”

“But the free food?”

“Not worth the small talk.”

Maybe he was on a diet, because what kind of Ph.D. student said that? And Olive was sure that he was a Ph.D. student—the haughty, condescending tone was a dead giveaway. All Ph.D. students were like that: thinking they were better than everyone else just because they had the dubious privilege of slaughtering fruit flies in the name of science for ninety cents an hour. In the grim, dark hellscape of academia, graduate students were the lowliest of creatures and therefore had to convince themselves that they were the best. Olive was no clinical psychologist, but it seemed like a pretty textbook defense mechanism.

“Are you interviewing for a spot in the program?” he asked.

“Yup. For next year’s biology cohort.” God, her eyes were burning. “What about you?” she asked, pressing her palms into them.

“How long have you been here?”

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

“Oh. Are you graduating soon, then?”

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.”

A beat. And then another. “Right.”

“Sorry.” She wished she could see him. Social interactions were hard enough to begin with; the last thing she needed was fewer cues to go by. “I didn’t mean to channel your parents at Thanksgiving.”

He laughed softly. “You could never.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “Annoying parents?”

“And even worse Thanksgivings.”

“That’s what you Americans get for leaving the Commonwealth.” She held out her hand in what she hoped was his general direction. “I’m Olive, by the way. Like the tree.” She was starting to wonder whether she’d just introduced herself to the drain disposal when she heard him step closer. The hand that closed around hers was dry, and warm, and so large it could have enveloped her whole fist. Everything about him must be huge. Height, fingers, voice.

It was not entirely unpleasant.

“You’re not American?” he asked.

“Canadian. Listen, if you happen to talk with anyone who’s on the admissions committee, would you mind not mentioning my contacts mishap? It might make me seem like a less-than-stellar applicant.”

“You think so?” he deadpanned.

She would have glared at him if she could. Though maybe she was doing a decent job of it anyway, because he laughed—just a huff, but Olive could tell. And she kind of liked it.

He let go of her, and she realized that she’d been gripping his hand. Oops.

“Are you planning to enroll?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I might not get an offer.” But she and the professor she’d interviewed with, Dr. Aslan, had really hit it off. Olive had stuttered and mumbled much less than usual. Plus, her GRE scores and GPA were almost perfect. Not having a life came in handy, sometimes.

“Are you planning to enroll if you get an offer, then?”

She’d be stupid not to. This was Stanford, after all—one of the best biology programs. Or at least, that was what Olive had been telling herself to cover the petrifying truth.

Which was that, frankly, she was a bit on the fence about this whole grad school thing.

“Seems like you’re leaning toward screwup.” He sounded like he was smiling.

She bit her lip. “What if I’m not good enough?” she blurted out, and why, God, why was she baring the deepest fears of her secret little heart to this random bathroom guy? And what was the point, anyway? Every time she aired out her doubts to friends and acquaintances, they all automatically offered the same trite, meaningless encouragements. You’ll be fine. You can do it. I believe in you. This guy was surely going to do the same.

“Why do you want to do it?”

“Get a Ph.D. What’s your reason?”

Olive cleared her throat. “I’ve always had an inquisitive mind, and graduate school is the ideal environment to foster that. It’ll give me important transferable skills—”

She frowned. “What?”

“Not the line you found in an interview prep book. Why do you want a Ph.D.?”

“It’s true,” she insisted, a bit weakly. “I want to sharpen my research abilities—”

“Is it because you don’t know what else to do?”

“Because you didn’t get an industry position?”

“No—I didn’t even apply for industry.”

“Ah.” He moved, a large, blurry figure stepping next to her to pour something down the sink. Olive could smell a whiff of eugenol, and laundry detergent, and clean, male skin. An oddly nice combination.

“I need more freedom than industry can offer.”

“You won’t have much freedom in academia.” His voice was closer, like he hadn’t stepped back yet. “You’ll have to fund your work through ludicrously competitive research grants. You’d make better money in a nine-to-five job that actually allows you to entertain the concept of weekends.”

Olive scowled. “Are you trying to get me to decline my offer? Is this some kind of anti–expired-contacts-wearers campaign?”

She could hear his smile.

“I’ll go ahead and trust that it was just a misstep.”

“I wear them all the time, and they almost never—”

“In a long line of missteps, clearly.” He sighed. “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.”

She felt the air shift and realized that he was now leaning against the sink.

Heavy thoughts to have in the presence of a stranger, in the darkness of her closed eyelids. So she cracked them open; her vision was still blurry, but the burning was mostly gone. The Guy was looking at her. Fuzzy around the edges, perhaps, but so very there, waiting patiently for her to continue.

“It’s important to me,” she repeated. “The research that I want to do.” Olive was twenty-three and alone in the world. She didn’t want weekends, or a decent salary. She wanted to go back in time. She wanted to be less lonely. But since that was impossible, she’d settle for fixing what she could.

He nodded but said nothing as he straightened and took a few steps toward the door. Clearly leaving.

“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.”

He was smiling, she thought. Or something like it.

“Good luck on your interview, Olive.”

He was almost out the door already.

“Maybe I’ll see you next year,” she babbled, flushing a little. “If I get in. And if you haven’t graduated.”

“Maybe,” she heard him say.

With that, The Guy was gone. And Olive never got his name. But a few weeks later, when the Stanford biology department extended her an offer, she accepted it. Without hesitating.

HYPOTHESIS: When given a choice between A (a slightly inconveniencing situation) and B (a colossal shitshow with devastating consequences), I will inevitably end up selecting B.

Two years, eleven months later

In Olive’s defense, the man didn’t seem to mind the kiss too much.

Книга the love hypothesis

Praise for The Love Hypothesis

—New York Times bestselling author Christina Lauren

“Funny, sexy, and smart. Ali Hazelwood did a terrific job with The Love Hypothesis.”

—New York Times bestselling author Mariana Zapata

—New York Times bestselling author Jessica Clare

“A beautifully written romantic comedy with a heroine you will instantly fall in love with, The Love Hypothesis is destined to earn a place on your keeper shelf.”

—Elizabeth Everett, author of A Lady’s Formula for Love

Published by Berkley

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Hazelwood, Ali, author.

Title: The love hypothesis / Ali Hazelwood.

Description: First edition. | New York: Jove, 2021.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020057346 (print) | LCCN 2020057347 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593336823 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593336830 (ebook)

Subjects: GSAFD: Love stories.

Classification: LCC PS3608.A98845 L68 2021 (print) | LCC PS3608.A98845 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020057346

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020057347

First Edition: September 2021

Cover illustration by lilithsaur

Book design by Tiffany Estreicher, adapted for ebook by Estelle Malmed

To my women in STEM: Kate, Caitie, Hatun, and Mar. Per aspera ad aspera.

Praise for The Love Hypothesis

Excerpt from LOVE ON THE BRAIN

About the Author

A supposition or proposed explanation made on the basis of limited evidence, as a starting point for further investigation.

Example: “Based on the available information and the data hitherto collected, my hypothesis is that the farther away I stay from love, the better off I will be.”

Frankly, Olive was a bit on the fence about this whole grad school thing.

The Guy whose name she never really got.

The Guy she met after stumbling blindly into the first bathroom she could find.

The Guy who asked her, “Out of curiosity, is there a specific reason you’re crying in my restroom?”

A pause. Silence. And then: “Nope.” His voice was deep. So deep. Really deep. Dreamy deep.

“Fairly, since this is my lab’s bathroom.”

“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?”

“You put in expired contacts?” He sounded personally offended.

“Just a little expired.”

“I don’t know. A few years?”

“What?” His consonants were sharp and precise. Crisp. Pleasant.

“Only just a couple, I think.”

“Just a couple of years?”

“It’s okay. Expiration dates are for the weak.”

A sharp sound—some kind of snort. “Expiration dates are so I don’t find you weeping in the corner of my bathroom.”

Unless this dude was Mr. Stanford himself, he really needed to stop calling this his bathroom.

“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?”

She frowned. “Done what?”

“Put in expired contacts.”

“Of course. Contacts are not cheap.”

“Neither are eyes.”

Humph. Good point. “Hey, have we met? Maybe last night, at the recruitment dinner with prospective Ph.D. students?”

“You weren’t there?”

“Not really my scene.”

“But the free food?”

“Not worth the small talk.”

“Are you interviewing for a spot in the program?” he asked.

“Yup. For next year’s biology cohort.” God, her eyes were burning. “What about you?” she asked, pressing her palms into them.

“How long have you been here?”

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

“Oh. Are you graduating soon, then?”

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.”

A beat. And then another. “Right.”

He laughed softly. “You could never.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “Annoying parents?”

“And even worse Thanksgivings.”

It was not entirely unpleasant.

“You’re not American?” he asked.

“You think so?” he deadpanned.

She would have glared at him if she could. Though maybe she was doing a decent job of it anyway, because he laughed—just a huff, but Olive could tell. And she kind of liked it.

He let go of her, and she realized that she’d been gripping his hand. Oops.

“Are you planning to enroll?” he asked.

“Are you planning to enroll if you get an offer, then?”

She’d be stupid not to. This was Stanford, after all—one of the best biology programs. Or at least, that was what Olive had been telling herself to cover the petrifying truth.

Which was that, frankly, she was a bit on the fence about this whole grad school thing.

“Seems like you’re leaning toward screwup.” He sounded like he was smiling.

“Why do you want to do it?”

“Get a Ph.D. What’s your reason?”

Olive cleared her throat. “I’ve always had an inquisitive mind, and graduate school is the ideal environment to foster that. It’ll give me important transferable skills—”

She frowned. “What?”

“Not the line you found in an interview prep book. Why do you want a Ph.D.?”

“It’s true,” she insisted, a bit weakly. “I want to sharpen my research abilities—”

“Is it because you don’t know what else to do?”

“Because you didn’t get an industry position?”

“No—I didn’t even apply for industry.”

“I need more freedom than industry can offer.”

Olive scowled. “Are you trying to get me to decline my offer? Is this some kind of anti–expired-contacts-wearers campaign?”

She could hear his smile.

“I’ll go ahead and trust that it was just a misstep.”

“I wear them all the time, and they almost never—”

She felt the air shift and realized that he was now leaning against the sink.

He nodded but said nothing as he straightened and took a few steps toward the door. Clearly leaving.

“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.”

He was smiling, she thought. Or something like it.

“Good luck on your interview, Olive.”

He was almost out the door already.

“Maybe I’ll see you next year,” she babbled, flushing a little. “If I get in. And if you haven’t graduated.”

“Maybe,” she heard him say.

With that, The Guy was gone. And Olive never got his name. But a few weeks later, when the Stanford biology department extended her an offer, she accepted it. Without hesitating.

HYPOTHESIS: When given a choice between A (a slightly inconveniencing situation) and B (a colossal shitshow with devastating consequences), I will inevitably end up selecting B.

Two years, eleven months later

In Olive’s defense, the man didn’t seem to mind the kiss too much.

The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood

When a fake relationship between scientists meets the irresistible force of attraction, it throws one woman’s carefully calculated theories on love into chaos.

As a third-year Ph.D. candidate, Olive Smith doesn’t believe in lasting romantic relationships–but her best friend does, and that’s what got her into this situation. Convincing Anh that Olive is dating and well on her way to a happily ever after was always going to take more than hand-wavy Jedi mind tricks: Scientists require proof. So, like any self-respecting biologist, Olive panics and kisses the first man she sees.

That man is none other than Adam Carlsen, a young hotshot professor–and well-known ass. Which is why Olive is positively floored when Stanford’s reigning lab tyrant agrees to keep her charade a secret and be her fake boyfriend. But when a big science conference goes haywire, putting Olive’s career on the Bunsen burner, Adam surprises her again with his unyielding support and even more unyielding… six-pack abs.

The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood

Frankly, Olive was a bit on the fence about this whole grad school thing.

Not because she didn’t like science. (She did. She loved science. Science was her thing.) And not because of the truckload of obvious red flags. She was well aware that committing to years of unappreciated, underpaid eighty-hour workweeks might not be good for her mental health. That nights spent toiling away in front of a Bunsen burner to uncover a trivial slice of knowledge might not be the key to happiness. That devoting her mind and body to academic pursuits with only infrequent breaks to steal unattended bagels might not be a wise choice.

The Guy whose name she never really got.

The Guy she met after stumbling blindly into the first bathroom she could find.

The Guy who asked her, “Out of curiosity, is there a specific reason you’re crying in my restroom?”

A pause. Silence. And then: “Nope.” His voice was deep. So deep. Really deep. Dreamy deep.

“Fairly, since this is my lab’s bathroom.”

“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?”

“You put in expired contacts?” He sounded personally offended.

“Just a little expired.”

“I don’t know. A few years?”

“What?” His consonants were sharp and precise. Crisp. Pleasant.

“Only just a couple, I think.”

“Just a couple of years?”

“It’s okay. Expiration dates are for the weak.”

A sharp sound—some kind of snort. “Expiration dates are so I don’t find you weeping in the corner of my bathroom.”

Unless this dude was Mr. Stanford himself, he really needed to stop calling this his bathroom.

“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?”

She frowned. “Done what?”

“Put in expired contacts.”

“Of course. Contacts are not cheap.”

“Neither are eyes.”

Humph. Good point. “Hey, have we met? Maybe last night, at the recruitment dinner with prospective Ph.D. students?”

“You weren’t there?”

“Not really my scene.”

“But the free food?”

“Not worth the small talk.”

Maybe he was on a diet, because what kind of Ph.D. student said that? And Olive was sure that he was a Ph.D. student—the haughty, condescending tone was a dead giveaway. All Ph.D. students were like that: thinking they were better than everyone else just because they had the dubious privilege of slaughtering fruit flies in the name of science for ninety cents an hour. In the grim, dark hellscape of academia, graduate students were the lowliest of creatures and therefore had to convince themselves that they were the best. Olive was no clinical psychologist, but it seemed like a pretty textbook defense mechanism.

“Are you interviewing for a spot in the program?” he asked.

“Yup. For next year’s biology cohort.” God, her eyes were burning. “What about you?” she asked, pressing her palms into them.

“How long have you been here?”

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

“Oh. Are you graduating soon, then?”

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.”

A beat. And then another. “Right.”

He laughed softly. “You could never.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “Annoying parents?”

“And even worse Thanksgivings.”

It was not entirely unpleasant.

“You’re not American?” he asked.

“You think so?” he deadpanned.

She would have glared at him if she could. Though maybe she was doing a decent job of it anyway, because he laughed—just a huff, but Olive could tell. And she kind of liked it.

He let go of her, and she realized that she’d been gripping his hand. Oops.

“Are you planning to enroll?” he asked.

“Are you planning to enroll if you get an offer, then?”

She’d be stupid not to. This was Stanford, after all—one of the best biology programs. Or at least, that was what Olive had been telling herself to cover the petrifying truth.

Which was that, frankly, she was a bit on the fence about this whole grad school thing.

“Seems like you’re leaning toward screwup.” He sounded like he was smiling.

She bit her lip. “What if I’m not good enough?” she blurted out, and why, God, why was she baring the deepest fears of her secret little heart to this random bathroom guy? And what was the point, anyway? Every time she aired out her doubts to friends and acquaintances, they all automatically offered the same trite, meaningless encouragements. You’ll be fine. You can do it. I believe in you. This guy was surely going to do the same.

“Why do you want to do it?”

“Get a Ph.D. What’s your reason?”

Olive cleared her throat. “I’ve always had an inquisitive mind, and graduate school is the ideal environment to foster that. It’ll give me important transferable skills—”

She frowned. “What?”

“Not the line you found in an interview prep book. Why do you want a Ph.D.?”

“It’s true,” she insisted, a bit weakly. “I want to sharpen my research abilities—”

“Is it because you don’t know what else to do?”

“Because you didn’t get an industry position?”

“No—I didn’t even apply for industry.”

“I need more freedom than industry can offer.”

Olive scowled. “Are you trying to get me to decline my offer? Is this some kind of anti–expired-contacts-wearers campaign?”

She could hear his smile.

“I’ll go ahead and trust that it was just a misstep.”

“I wear them all the time, and they almost never—”

“In a long line of missteps, clearly.” He sighed. “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 felt the air shift and realized that he was now leaning against the sink.

He nodded but said nothing as he straightened and took a few steps toward the door. Clearly leaving.

“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.”

He was smiling, she thought. Or something like it.

“Good luck on your interview, Olive.”

He was almost out the door already.

“Maybe I’ll see you next year,” she babbled, flushing a little. “If I get in. And if you haven’t graduated.”

“Maybe,” she heard him say.

With that, The Guy was gone. And Olive never got his name. But a few weeks later, when the Stanford biology department extended her an offer, she accepted it. Without hesitating.

Exclusive Sneak Peek

In Olive’s defense, the man didn’t seem to mind the kiss too much.

It did take him a moment to adjust—perfectly understandable, given the sudden circumstances. It was an awkward, uncomfortable, somewhat painful minute, in which Olive was simultaneously smashing her lips against his and pushing herself as high as her toes would extend to keep her mouth at the same level as his face. Did he have to be so tall? The kiss must have looked like some clumsy headbutt, and she grew anxious that she was not going to be able to pull the whole thing off. Her friend Anh, whom Olive had spotted coming her way a few seconds ago, was going to take one look at this and know at once that Olive and Kiss Dude couldn’t possibly be two people in the middle of a date.

It was more of a prolonged peck than anything, but it was quite nice, and for the life span of a few seconds Olive forgot a large number of things, including the fact that she was pressed against a random, unknown dude. That she’d barely had the time to whisper “Can I please kiss you?” before locking lips with him. That what had originally driven her to put on this entire show was the hope of fooling Anh, her best friend in the whole world.

But a good kiss will do that: make a girl forget herself for a while. Olive found herself melting into a broad, solid chest that showed absolutely no give. Her hands traveled from a defined jaw into surprisingly thick and soft hair, and then—then she heard herself sigh, as if already out of breath, and that’s when it hit her like a brick on her head, the realization that— No. No.

She should not be enjoying this. Random dude, and all that.

Olive gasped and pushed herself away from him, frantically looking for Anh. In the 11:00 p.m., bluish glow of the biology labs’ hallway, her friend was nowhere to be seen. Weird. Olive was sure she had spotted her a few seconds earlier.

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—

Because Dr. Adam Carlsen was a known ass.

This fact was not remarkable in and of itself, as in academia every position above the graduate student level (Olive’s level, sadly) required some degree of assness in order to be held for any length of time, with tenured faculty at the very peak of the ass pyramid. Dr. Carlsen, though—he was exceptional. At least if the rumors were anything to go by.

He was the reason Olive’s roommate, Malcolm, had to completely scrap two research projects and would likely end up graduating a year late; the one who had made Jeremy throw up from anxiety before his qualifying exams; the sole culprit for half the students in the department being forced to postpone their thesis defenses. Joe, who used to be in Olive’s cohort and would take her to watch out-of-focus European movies with microscopic subtitles every Thursday night, used to be a research assistant in Carlsen’s lab, but he’d decided to drop out six months into it for “reasons.” It was probably for the best, since most of Carlsen’s remaining graduate assistants had perennially shaky hands and often looked like they hadn’t slept in a year.

Dr. Carlsen might have been a young academic rock star and biology’s wunderkind, but he was also mean and hypercritical, and it was obvious in the way he spoke, in the way he carried himself, that he thought himself the only person doing decent science within the Stanford biology department. Within the entire world, probably. He was a notoriously moody, obnoxious, terrifying dick.

Love Hypothesis, The, Hazelwood, Ali

Автор: Hazelwood Roy
Название: Dark Dreams: A Legendary FBI Profiler Examines Homicide and the Criminal Mind
ISBN: 0312980116 ISBN-13(EAN): 9780312980115
Издательство: Holtzbrink(MPS)/MPS
Цена: 870 р.
Наличие на складе: Есть у поставщика Поставка под заказ.

Автор: Hazelwood Ann
Название: A Christmas Wish Quilt
ISBN: 1683391187 ISBN-13(EAN): 9781683391180
Издательство: Неизвестно
Цена: 1973 р.
Наличие на складе: Нет в наличии.

Описание: Lily Rosenthal starts her holidays with a Thanksgiving Pie Party, but the holiday season truly comes alive during the Christmas Walk in her town of Augusta, Missouri. A jolly, perfect Santa Claus occupies Doc’s office on her property during the event and offers children one wish for Christmas. This inspires Lily to make a Christmas Wish quilt for her newly discovered halfsister. Wishes abound throughout the holiday season until a wish to find out more about Doc, Lily’s unsettled spirit, turns quite interesting.

Автор: Hazelwood Ann
Название: Quilted Secrets
ISBN: 1683391179 ISBN-13(EAN): 9781683391173
Издательство: Неизвестно
Цена: 1973 р.
Наличие на складе: Нет в наличии.

Описание: Everyone has at least one secret they carry through their lives. Lily tries to keep a secret herself as she encounters the many secrets of her quilt class, community, friends, and family members. The mystery continues with the doctor that once lived in Lily’s house, whose secrets may never be known. An unexpected, life-changing secret is revealed when an estranged cousin comes to visit. Will Lily tell? Quilted Secrets is the third novel in the Wine Country Quilts Series. Ann Hazelwood is a former shop owner and native of St. Charles, Missouri. She’s always adored quilting and is a certified quilt appraiser. She’s the author of the wildly successful Colebridge Community Series and considers writing to be one of her greatest passions. Other Book Series: Colebridge Community Series (7 novels) and East Perry County Series (5 novels)

Автор: Hazelwood Carol W.
Название: Dead End
ISBN: 1593308728 ISBN-13(EAN): 9781593308728
Издательство: Неизвестно
Цена: 1467 р.
Наличие на складе: Поставка под заказ.

Автор: Hazelwood Carol
Название: A View from the Jury Box
ISBN: 159330708X ISBN-13(EAN): 9781593307080
Издательство: Неизвестно
Цена: 1308 р.
Наличие на складе: Поставка под заказ.

Автор: Hazelwood Molly
Название: Time Heals All Things
ISBN: 1982002158 ISBN-13(EAN): 9781982002152
Издательство: Неизвестно
Цена: 2473 р.
Наличие на складе: Нет в наличии.

Автор: Hazelwood Derrick
Название: The Memoirs of an Innocent Man: Extreme Life Tests Create Glorious Testimonies
ISBN: 1641142146 ISBN-13(EAN): 9781641142144
Издательство: Неизвестно
Цена: 1626 р.
Наличие на складе: Поставка под заказ.

Автор: Hazelwood Ann
Название: Church Ladies Quilts
ISBN: 1604603941 ISBN-13(EAN): 9781604603941
Издательство: Неизвестно
Цена: 1973 р.
Наличие на складе: Нет в наличии.

Описание: For generations, ladies have gathered at churches to quilt, as they bring income to their treasury. In Church Ladies Quilts, the fifth and final novel in the East Perry County series, Kate Meyr’s love for quilts convinces her to join the quilters at Concordia Lutheran church in Borna. The ritual of their practices amuse Kate as she listens to the diverse personalities. It doesn’t take long after Kate joins them that a mystery surfaces of a missing quilt. The Pastor, who is dearly admired by the ladies, tries to keep the story quiet for the church’s reputation. In the meantime, Kate’s friendship with Clark is turned upside down and a new relationship appears with a red Jeep. Kate’s research on Josephine is enhanced by discovering who has been putting yellow roses on her grave.

Автор: Hazelwood Ann
Название: Everlasting Quilts
ISBN: 1604603933 ISBN-13(EAN): 9781604603934
Издательство: Неизвестно
Цена: 1973 р.
Наличие на складе: Нет в наличии.

Описание: Complicated and confusing romance continues for Josephine’s Guest House proprietor Kate Meyr in Everlasting Quilts, the fourth novel in the East Perry County series. John Baker, Kate’s lakehouse neighbor, a writer, and wannabe lover intrigues Kate with his research on quilts for a magazine article. In the process, she discovers unusual destinations for quilts, even in her own family. These stories are precious and everlasting. But not all is precious in Borna as Kate faces a fight for her life in her beloved home. Thanks to the spirit of Josephine and a handsome new acquaintance, Kate is able to persevere. It’s once again another secret that Kate has to keep from her community as she continues to protect her guest house’s reputation.

Автор: Hazelwood Pauline
Название: Alice the Little Welsh Engine
ISBN: 0992723906 ISBN-13(EAN): 9780992723903
Издательство: Неизвестно
Цена: 622 р.
Наличие на складе: Невозможна поставка.

Автор: Hazelwood Ann Watkins
Название: The Basement Quilt: Introducing the Colebridge Community
ISBN: 1604600454 ISBN-13(EAN): 9781604600452
Издательство: Неизвестно
Цена: 2302 р.
Наличие на складе: Нет в наличии.

Автор: Hazelwood Ann
Название: For the Love of Quilts
ISBN: 1683391152 ISBN-13(EAN): 9781683391159
Издательство: Неизвестно
Цена: 1973 р.
Наличие на складе: Нет в наличии.

Книга the love hypothesis

Dammit. She was weepy, again. In front of Adam, again.

“She sounds lovely,” Adam said.

She sniffled and looked up at him. The temptation to hug him was almost irresistible. But she’d already done that today, so she made do with patting him on the arm. “Aww.”

He pinned her with a withering look. “Don’t aww me.”

Adorable. He was adorable. “No, really, they are gross. Stuff pokes at you, and then you bleed. The feeling of it—yikes.”

She got out of the car and waited for him to do the same. When he joined her, she smiled at him reassuringly.

“You do?” He didn’t seem convinced.

“Yep. They’re horrible.”

He was still a little distrustful. “They are.”

“And scary.” She wrapped her hand around his elbow and began to pull him in the direction of the Fluchella tent. “Still, you need to get over it. For science. I’m taking you to get a flu shot.”

“This is nonnegotiable. I’ll hold your hand, during.”

“I don’t need you to hold my hand. Since I’m not going.” Except that he was going. He could have planted his feet and stood his ground, and he would have turned into an immovable object; Olive would have had no way of dragging him anywhere. And yet.

She let her hand slide down to his wrist and looked up at him. “You so are.”

“Please.” He looked pained. “Don’t make me.”

He was so adorable. “It’s for your own good. And for the good of the elderly people who might come in any proximity to you. Even more elderly than you, that is.”

He sighed, defeated. “Olive.”

“Come on. Maybe we’re lucky and the chair will spot us. And I’ll buy you an ice cream sandwich afterward.”

“Will I be paying for this ice cream sandwich?” He sounded resigned now.

“Likely. Actually, scratch that, you probably don’t like ice cream anyway, because you don’t enjoy anything that’s good in life.” She kept on walking, pensively chewing on her lower lip. “Maybe the cafeteria has some raw broccoli?”

“I don’t deserve this verbal abuse on top of the flu shot.”

She beamed. “You’re such a trooper. Even though the big bad needle is out to get you.”

“You are a smart-ass.” And yet, he didn’t resist when she continued to pull him behind her.

It was ten on an early-September morning, the sun already shining too bright and too hot through the cotton of Olive’s shirt, the sweetgum leaves still a deep green and showing no sign of turning. It felt different from the past few years, this summer that didn’t seem to want to end, that was stretched full and ripe past the beginning of the semester. Undergrads must have been either dozing off in their midmorning classes or still asleep in bed, because for once that harried air of chaos that always coated the Stanford campus was missing. And Olive—Olive had a lab for next year. Everything she’d worked toward since fifteen, it was finally going to happen.

Life didn’t get much better than this.

She smiled, smelling the flower beds and humming a tune under her breath as she and Adam walked quietly, side by side. As they made their way across the quad, her fingers slid down from his wrist and closed around his palm.

HYPOTHESIS: If I fall in love, things will invariably end poorly.

The knockout mouse had been hanging from a wire for a length of time that should have been impossible, considering how it had been genetically modified. Olive frowned at it and pressed her lips together. It was missing crucial DNA. All the hanging-from-a-wire proteins had been erased. There was no way it could hold on for this long. It was the whole point of knocking out its stupid genes—

Her phone lit up, and the corner of her eye darted to its screen. She was able to read the name of the sender (Adam) but not the content of the message. It was 8:42 on Wednesday, which immediately had her worried that he might want to cancel their fake date. Maybe he thought that because he’d let Olive pick out an ice cream sandwich for him yesterday after Fluchella (which she may or may not have ended up eating herself) they didn’t need to meet today. Maybe she shouldn’t have forced him to sit on a bench with her and recount the marathons they had run, and possibly she had come off as annoying when she’d stolen his phone, downloaded her favorite running app, and then friended herself on it. He had seemed to be enjoying himself, but maybe he hadn’t been.

Olive glanced at her gloved hands, and then back at her mouse, who was still holding on to the wire.

“Dude, stop trying so hard.” She kneeled until she was at eye level with the cage. The mouse kicked around with its little legs, its tail flopping back and forth. “You’re supposed to be bad at this. And I’m supposed to write a dissertation about how bad you are. And then you get a chunk of cheese, and I get a real job that pays real money and the joy of saying ‘I’m not that kind of doctor’ when someone is having a stroke on my airplane.”

The mouse squeaked and let go of the wire, flopping on the floor of the testing cage with a thud.

“That’ll do it.” She quickly got rid of her gloves and unlocked her phone with her thumb.

Adam: My arm hurts.

She initially thought that he was giving her a reason why they couldn’t meet up. Then she remembered waking up and rubbing her own achy arm.

Olive: From the flu shot?

Adam: It’s really painful.

Olive: Oh, Adam. I’m so sorry.

Olive: Should I come over and kiss it better?

Adam: You never said it would hurt so bad.

Olive: As someone once told me, it’s not my job to work on your emotion regulation skills.

Adam’s answer was one single emoji (a yellow hand with a raised middle finger), and Olive’s cheeks pulled with how hard she was grinning. She was about to reply with a kiss emoji when a voice interrupted her.

She looked up from her phone. Anh stood in the lab’s entrance, sticking out her tongue.

“Hey. What are you doing here?”

“Borrowing gloves. And being grossed out.”

Olive frowned. “Why?”

“We’re out of the small size.” Anh stepped inside, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, they never buy enough because I’m the only woman in the lab, but it’s not like I don’t go through gloves as fast as—”

“No, why are you grossed out?”

Anh made a face and plucked two purple gloves from Olive’s stash. “Because of how in love you are with Carlsen. Is it okay if I take a few pairs?”

“What are you—” Olive blinked at her, still clutching her phone. Was Anh going crazy? “I’m not in love with him.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Anh finished stuffing her pockets with gloves and then looked up, finally noticing Olive’s distressed expression. Her eyes widened. “Hey, I was kidding! You’re not gross. I probably look the same when I’m texting Jeremy. And it’s actually very sweet, how gone you are for him—”

“But I’m not. Gone.” Olive was starting to panic. “I don’t—It’s just—”

Anh pressed her lips together, as if biting back a smile. “Okay. If you say so.”

“No, I’m serious. We’re just—”

“Okay, sure. If you say so.” Anh shrugged, clearly not believing a word of what Olive was saying. “Hey, I gotta go back to my bacterial culture. I’ll come bug you when I’m on break, okay?”

Olive nodded slowly, watching her friend’s back as she headed for the door. Olive’s heart skipped a beat when Anh paused and turned around, her expression suddenly serious.

She left with a wave of her hand, and Olive stood frozen, watching the doorframe long past the moment Anh had disappeared. Then she lowered her gaze to the floor, slumped on the stool behind her, and thought one single thing:

IT WASN’T THE end of the world. These things happened. Even the best of people developed crushes—Anh had said love, oh God, she had said love—on the person they were fake-dating. It didn’t mean anything.

Olive locked the door of her office behind her and plopped herself into a chair, hoping today wouldn’t be the one time in the semester that her office mates decided to show up before 10:00 a.m.

It was all her fault. Her stupid doing. She had known, she had known, that she’d begun to find Adam attractive. She had known almost from the very beginning, and then she’d started talking with him, she’d started getting to know him even though it was never part of the plan, and—damn him to hell for being so different from what she’d expected. For making her want to be with him more and more. Damn him. It had been there, staring at Olive for the past few days, and she hadn’t noticed. Because she was an idiot.

She stood abruptly and dug into her pocket for her phone, pulling up Malcolm’s contact.

Olive: We have to meet.

Bless Malcolm, because it took him fewer than five seconds to answer.

Malcolm: Lunch? I’m about to dig into the neuromuscular junction of a juvenile rat.

Olive: I need to talk to you NOW.

Malcolm: Starbucks. In 10.

Olive didn’t bother lifting her forehead from the table. “You didn’t.”

“Well, maybe I didn’t say, ‘Hey, don’t do this fake-dating shit because you’re going to fall for Carlsen,’ but I did say that the whole idea was idiotic and a car wreck waiting to happen—which I believe encompasses the current situation.”

Malcolm was sitting across from her, by the window of the crowded coffee shop. Around them students chatted, laughed, ordered drinks—rudely unaware of the sudden maelstrom in Olive’s life. She pushed up from the cold surface of the table and pressed her palms into her eyes, not quite ready to open them yet. She might never be ready again. “How could this happen? I am not like this. This is not me. How could I—and Adam Carlsen, of everyone. Who is into Adam Carlsen?”

Malcolm snorted. “Everyone, Ol. He’s a tall, broody, sullen hunk with a genius IQ. Everyone likes tall, broody, sullen hunks with genius IQs.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and whimpered. “He’s really not that sullen.”

“Oh, he is. Just, you don’t notice, because you’re halfway gone for him.”

“I am not—” She smacked her forehead. Repeatedly. “Shit.”

He leaned forward and grabbed her hand, his skin dark and warm against hers. “Hey,” he told her, voice pitched to a comforting tone. “Settle down. We’ll figure it out.” He even tacked on a smile. Olive loved him so much in that moment, even with all the I told you sos. “First of all, how bad is it?”

“I don’t know. Is there a scale?”

“Well, there is liking, and there is liking.”

She shook her head, feeling utterly lost. “I just like him. I want to spend time with him.”

“Okay, that doesn’t mean anything. You also want to spend time with me.”

She grimaced, feeling herself blush scarlet. “Not quite like that.”

Malcolm was quiet for a beat. “I see.” He knew how big of a deal this was for Olive. They’d talked about it multiple times—how rare it was for her to experience attraction, especially sexual attraction. If there was something wrong with her. If her past had stunted her in some way.

“God.” She just wanted to retreat inside her hoodie like a turtle until it all went away. Go run a race. Start writing her dissertation proposal. Anything but deal with this. “It was there, and I didn’t figure it out. I just thought he was smart and attractive and that he had a nice smile and that we could be friends and—” She rubbed her palms into her eye sockets, wishing she could go back and erase her life choices. The entire past month. “Do you hate me?”

“Me?” Malcolm sounded surprised.

“No. Why would I hate you?”

“Because he’s been horrible to you, made you throw out a ton of data. It’s just—with me he’s not—”

“I know. Well,” he amended, waving his hand, “I don’t know know. But I can believe he’s different with you than when he was in my damn graduate advisory committee.”

“This is not what you said when I first told you about the fake dating.”

“No, but I’m trying to be supportive here. You weren’t in love with him at the time.”

She groaned. “Can we please not use that word? Ever again? It seems a little premature.”

“Sure.” Malcolm brushed nonexistent dust off his button-down. “Way to bring a rom-com to life, by the way. So, how are you going to break the news?”

She massaged her temple. “What do you mean?”

“Whatever.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re going to tell him, right?”

“Of course not.” She snorted out a laugh. “You can’t tell the person you’re fake-dating that you”—her brain scanned itself for the correct word, didn’t find it, and then stumbled on—“like them. It’s just not done. Adam will think I orchestrated this. That I was after him all along.”

“That’s ridiculous. You didn’t even know him at the time.”

“Maybe I did, though. Do you remember the guy I told you about, who helped me decide about grad school? The one I met in the bathroom over my interview weekend?”

“He might have been Adam. I think
.”

“You think? You mean you didn’t ask him?”

“Because maybe it wasn’t him. And if he was, he clearly doesn’t remember, or he’d have mentioned it weeks ago.”

He hadn’t been the one wearing expired contacts, after all.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Listen, Olive,” he said earnestly, “I need you to consider something: What if Adam likes you, too? What if he wants something more?”

She laughed. “There is no way.”

Malcolm was quiet for a long moment. “You have no idea, do you?” His tone was sad. “You’re great. You’re beautiful, and loving. You’re independent, and a genius scientist, and selfless, and loyal—hell, Ol, look at this ridiculous mess you created just so your friend could date the guy she likes without feeling guilty. There’s no way Carlsen hasn’t noticed.”

“To what? Doesn’t want to fake-date you anymore? It’s not like you have much to lose.”

Maybe not. Maybe all the talking, and those looks Adam gave her, and him shaking his head when she ordered extra whipped cream; the way he let himself be teased out of his moods; the texts; how he seemed to be so at ease with her, so noticeably different from the Adam Carlsen she used to be half-scared of—maybe all of that was not much. But she and Adam were friends now, and they could remain friends even past September twenty-ninth. Olive’s heart sank at the thought of giving up the possibility of it. “I do, though.”

Книга the love hypothesis

She should not be enjoying this. Random dude, and all that.

Olive gasped and pushed herself away from him, frantically looking for Anh. In the 11:00 p.m. bluish glow of the biology labs’ hallway, her friend was nowhere to be seen. Weird. Olive was sure she had spotted her a few seconds earlier.

Because Dr. Adam Carlsen was a known ass.

He was the reason Olive’s roommate, Malcolm, had to completely scrap two research projects and would likely end up graduating a year late; the one who had made Jeremy throw up from anxiety before his qualifying exams; the sole culprit for half the students in the department being forced to postpone their thesis defenses. Joe, who used to be in Olive’s cohort and would take her to watch out-of-focus European movies with microscopic subtitles every Thursday night, had been a research assistant in Carlsen’s lab, but he’d decided to drop out six months into it for “reasons.” It was probably for the best, since most of Carlsen’s remaining graduate assistants had perennially shaky hands and often looked like they hadn’t slept in a year.

And Olive had just kissed him.

She wasn’t sure how long the silence lasted—only that he was the one to break it. He stood in front of Olive, ridiculously intimidating with dark eyes and even darker hair, staring down from who knows how many inches above six feet—he must have been over half a foot taller than she was. He scowled, an expression that she recognized from seeing him attend the departmental seminar, a look that usually preceded him raising his hand to point out some perceived fatal flaw in the speaker’s work.

Adam Carlsen. Destroyer of research careers, Olive had once overheard her adviser say.

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.

Still, it was worth a try.

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.

“I—” She buried her face in her hands. “It’s not the way it looks.”

There was simply no way to explain this. Any normal person would have found Olive’s situation odd, but Adam Carlsen, who obviously considered empathy a bug and not a feature of humanity, could never understand. She let her hands fall to her sides and took a deep breath.

He stared at her for a moment, and then he nodded. “Yes. Of course.” He must be getting back into his usual groove, because his tone had lost some of its surprise and was back to normal—dry. Laconic. “I’ll just go back to my office and begin to work on my Title IX complaint.”

Olive exhaled in relief. “Yeah. That would be great, since— Wait. Your what?”

He cocked his head. “Title IX is a federal law that protects against sexual misconduct within academic settings—”

“I know what Title IX is.”

“I see. So you willfully chose to disregard it.”

“I— What? No. No, I didn’t!”

He shrugged. “I must be mistaken, then. Someone else must have assaulted me.”

“Assault—I didn’t ‘assault’ you.”

“You did kiss me.”

“Without first securing my consent.”

“I asked if I could kiss you!”

“And then did so without waiting for my response.”

“What? You said yes.”

She frowned. “I asked if I could kiss you, and you said yes.”

“Incorrect. You asked if you could kiss me and I snorted.”

“I’m pretty sure I heard you said yes.”

He lifted one eyebrow, and for a minute Olive let herself daydream of drowning someone. Dr. Carlsen. Herself. Both sounded like great options.

“Listen, I’m really sorry. It was a weird situation. Can we just forget that this happened?”

er, but girls who are five eight rarely felt diminutive. At least until they found themselves standing next to Adam Carlsen. She’d known that he was tall, of course, from seeing him around the department or walking across campus, from sharing the elevator with him, but they’d never interacted. Never been this close.

Except for a second ago, Olive. When you almost put your tongue in his—

“Is there something wrong?” He sounded almost concerned.

“What? No. No, there isn’t.”

“Because,” he continued calmly, “kissing a stranger at midnight in a science lab might be a sign that there is.”

Carlsen nodded, thoughtful. “Very well. Expect mail in the next few days, then.” He began to walk past her, and she turned to yell after him.

“You didn’t even ask my name!”

“I’m sure anyone could figure it out, since you must have swiped your badge to get in the labs area after hours. Have a good night.”

“Wait!” She leaned forward and stopped him with a hand on his wrist. He paused immediately, even though it was obvious that it would take him no effort to free himself, and stared pointedly at the spot where her fingers had wrapped around his skin—right below a wristwatch that probably cost half her yearly graduate salary. Or all of it.

She let go of him at once and took one step back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“The kiss. Explain.”

Olive bit into her lower lip. She had truly screwed herself over. She had to tell him, now. “Anh Pham.” She looked around to make sure Anh was really gone. “The girl who was passing by. She’s a graduate student in the biology department.”

Carlsen gave no indication of knowing who Anh was.

Olive shut her eyes. Which was probably a bad idea, because now she could see it painted on her lids, how her best friend and her date had bantered in that bowling alley, as if they’d known each other their whole lives; the never-exhausted topics of conversation, the laughter, and then, at the end of the night, Jeremy following Anh’s every move with his gaze. It had been painfully clear who he was interested in. Olive waved a hand and tried for a smile.

Not to mention that the other day I overheard her confess to our friend Malcolm that she thought Jeremy was awesome, but she could never betray me by going out with him, and she sounded so dejected. Disappointed and insecure, not at all like the spunky, larger-than-life Anh I am used to.

“So I just lied and told her that I was already dating someone else. Because she’s one of my closest friends and I’d never seen her like a guy this much and I want her to have the good things she deserves and I’m positive that she would do the same for me and—” Olive realized that she was rambling and that Carlsen couldn’t have cared less. She stopped and swallowed, even though her mouth felt dry. “Tonight. I told her I’d be on a date tonight.”

“Ah.” His expression was unreadable.

“But I’m not. So I decided to come in to work on an experiment, but Anh showed up, too. She wasn’t supposed to be here. But she was. Coming this way. And I panicked—well.” Olive wiped a hand down her face. “I didn’t really think.”

Carlsen didn’t say anything, but it was there in his eyes that he was thinking, Obviously.

“I just needed her to believe that I was on a date.”

He nodded. “So you kissed the first person you saw in the hallway. Perfectly logical.”

Olive winced. “When you put it like that, perhaps it wasn’t my best moment.”

“But it wasn’t my worst, either! I’m pretty sure Anh saw us. Now she’ll think that I was on a date with you and she’ll hopefully feel free to go out with Jeremy and—” She shook her head. “Listen. I’m so, so sorry about the kiss.”

Maybe it was the late night. Maybe it was that her last coffee had been sixteen hours ago. Maybe it was Adam Carlsen looking down at her, like that. All of a sudden, this entire situation was just too much.

“Olive,” she heard him call after her. “Olive, wait—”

She didn’t stop. She sprinted down the stairs to the first floor and then out the building and across the pathways of the sparsely lit Stanford campus, running past a girl walking her dog and a group of students laughing in front of the library. She continued until she was standing in front of her apartment’s door, stopping only to unlock it, making a beeline for her room in the hope of avoiding her roommate and whoever he might have brought home tonight.

It wasn’t until she slumped on her bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars glued to her ceiling, that she realized she had neglected to check on her lab mice. She had also left her laptop on her bench and her sweatshirt somewhere in the lab, and she had completely forgotten to stop at the store and buy the coffee she’d promised Malcolm she’d get for tomorrow morning.

Shit. What a disaster of a day.

It never occurred to Olive that Dr. Adam Carlsen—known ass—had called her by her name.

HYPOTHESIS: Any rumor regarding my love life will spread with a speed that is directly proportional to my desire to keep said rumor a secret.

Olive Smith was a rising third-year Ph.D. student in one of the best biology departments in the country, one that housed more than one hundred grads and what often felt like several million majoring undergrads. She had no idea what the exact number of faculty was, but judging from the mailboxes in the copy room she’d say that a safe guess was: too many. Therefore, she reasoned that if she’d never had the misfortune of interacting with Adam Carlsen in the two years before The Night (it had been only a handful of days since the kissing incident, but Olive already knew that she’d think of last Friday as The Night for the rest of her life), it was entirely possible that she might be able to finish grad school without crossing paths with him ever again. In fact, she was fairly sure that not only did Adam Carlsen have no idea who she was, but he also had no desire to learn—and had probably already forgotten all about what happened.

Unless, of course, she was catastrophically wrong and he did end up filing a Title IX lawsuit. In which case she supposed that she would see him again, when she pleaded guilty in federal court.

Olive figured that sh

e could waste her time fretting about legal fees, or she could focus on what were more pressing issues. Like the approximately five hundred slides she had to prepare for the neurobiology class that she was slated to TA in the fall semester, which was starting in less than two weeks. Or the note Malcolm had left this morning, telling her he’d seen a cockroach scurry under the credenza even though their apartment was already full of traps. Or the most crucial one: the fact that her research project had reached a critical point and she desperately needed to find a bigger, significantly richer lab to carry out her experiment. Otherwise, what could very well become a groundbreaking, clinically relevant study might end up languishing on a handful of petri dishes stacked in the crisper drawer of her fridge.

She clicked on it so hard she almost sprained her pointer finger.

SUBJECT: Re: Pancreatic Cancer Screening Project

Your project sounds good. I’ll be visiting Stanford in about two weeks. Why don’t we chat then?

Department of Biological Sciences, Harvard University

Her heart skipped a beat. Then it started galloping. Then it slowed down to a crawl. And then she felt her blood pulsate in her eyelids, which couldn’t be healthy, but— Yes. Yes! She had a taker. Almost. Probably? Maybe. Definitely maybe. Tom Benton had said “good.” He had said that it sounded “good.” It had to be a “good” sign, right?

The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood (2021, Trade Paperback)

Галерея изображений

Новые: самая низкая цена

С самой низкой ценой, совершенно новый, неиспользованный, неоткрытый, неповрежденный товар в оригинальной упаковке (если товар поставляется в упаковке). Упаковка должна быть такой же, как упаковка этого товара в розничных магазинах, за исключением тех случаев, когда товар является изделием ручной работы или был упакован производителем в упаковку не для розничной продажи, например в коробку без маркировки или в пластиковый пакет. См. подробные сведения с дополнительным описанием товара

Что означает эта цена?

Это цена (за исключением сборов на обработку и доставку заказа), по которой такой же или почти идентичный товар выставляется на продажу в данный момент или выставлялся на продажу в недавно. Эту цену мог установить тот же продавец в другом месте или другой продавец. Сумма скидки и процентное отношение представляют собой подсчитанную разницу между ценами, указанными продавцом на eBay и в другом месте. Если у вас появятся вопросы относительно установления цен и/или скидки, предлагаемой в определенном объявлении, свяжитесь с продавцом, разместившим данное объявление.

Книга the love hypothesis

Моим женщинам в STEM: Кейт, Кейти, Хатун и Мар. Per aspera ad aspera. 1

Честно говоря, Оливия немного сомневалась насчет аспирантуры.

Парень, чье имя она так и не узнала.

Парень, которого она встретила, наткнувшись вслепую на первый попавшийся туалет.

— Я… это женский туалет? — заикаясь, спросила она.

— Вполне, поскольку это туалет моей лаборатории.

— О, простите. Я думала… — Плохо. Она плохо думала, это было её привычкой и проклятием.

— Конечно. Почему вы спрашиваете?

— Потому что вы плачете. В моей ванной.

— О, я не плачу. Ну, вроде как плачу, но это просто слезы, понимаете?

— Ты вставила просроченные линзы? — он звучал лично оскорбленным.

— Что значит «немного»?

— Я не знаю. Несколько лет?

— Что? — его согласные были резкими и точными. Четкие. Приятные.

— Только пару лет, я думаю.

— Всё нормально. Сроки годности — для слабых.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что делала это раньше?

Она нахмурилась. — Делала что?

— Вставляла просроченные линзы.

— Конечно. Они стоят недешево.

Хм. Хорошая мысль. — Эй, мы уже встречались? Может быть, вчера вечером, на ужине с будущими аспирантами?

— Тебя там не было?

— Не совсем моё место.

— Но бесплатная еда?

— Не стоит светских бесед.

— Ты проходишь собеседование на место в программе? — спросил он.

— Да. Для группы биологов следующего года. Боже, её глаза горели. — А ты? — спросила она, прижимая к ним ладони.

— Как давно ты здесь?

— Здесь? — пауза. — Шесть лет. Плюс-минус.

— О. Значит, ты скоро выпускаешься?

Мгновение. И еще одно. — Точно.

Он мягко засмеялся. — У тебя не получится.

— О, — она улыбнулась. — Раздражающие родители?

— И ещё более худшие Дни Благодарения.

Это было не совсем неприятно.

— Ты не американка? — спросил он.

— Ты так думаешь? — невозмутимо сказал он.

Он отпустил её, и она поняла, что схватила его за руку. Упс.

Love hypothesis. Hazelwood A.

Аннотация к книге «Love hypothesis» Hazelwood A.:
Based on the available information and the data hitherto collected, my hypothesis is that the further I stay away from love, the better off I will be.

‘Contemporary romance’s unicorn: the elusive marriage of deeply brainy and delightfully escapist.’ Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author of The Unhoneymooners

When a fake relationship between scientists meets the irresistible force of attraction, it throws one woman’s carefully calculated theories on love into chaos.

As a third-year Ph.D. candidate, Olive Smith doesn’t believe in lasting romantic relationships but her best friend does, and that’s what got her into this situation. Convincing Anh that Olive on her way to a happily ever after was always going to be tough, scientists require proof. So, like any self-respecting woman, Olive panics and kisses the first man she sees.

That man is none other than Adam Carlsen, a young hotshot professor and well-known ass. Which is why Olive is positively floored when he agrees to keep her charade a secret and be her fake boyfriend. But when a big science conference goes haywire and Adam surprises her again with his unyielding support (and his unyielding abs), their little experiment feels dangerously close to combustion.

Olive soon discovers that the only thing more complicated than a hypothesis on love is putting her own heart under the microscope. Читать дальше…

Гипотеза любви (ЛП)

Моим женщинам в STEM: Кейт, Кейти, Хатун и Мар. Per aspera ad aspera. 1

Честно говоря, Оливия немного сомневалась насчет аспирантуры.

Парень, чье имя она так и не узнала.

Парень, которого она встретила, наткнувшись вслепую на первый попавшийся туалет.

— Я… это женский туалет? — заикаясь, спросила она.

— Вполне, поскольку это туалет моей лаборатории.

— О, простите. Я думала… — Плохо. Она плохо думала, это было её привычкой и проклятием.

— Конечно. Почему вы спрашиваете?

— Потому что вы плачете. В моей ванной.

— О, я не плачу. Ну, вроде как плачу, но это просто слезы, понимаете?

— Ты вставила просроченные линзы? — он звучал лично оскорбленным.

— Что значит «немного»?

— Я не знаю. Несколько лет?

— Что? — его согласные были резкими и точными. Четкие. Приятные.

— Только пару лет, я думаю.

— Всё нормально. Сроки годности — для слабых.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что делала это раньше?

Она нахмурилась. — Делала что?

— Вставляла просроченные линзы.

— Конечно. Они стоят недешево.

Хм. Хорошая мысль. — Эй, мы уже встречались? Может быть, вчера вечером, на ужине с будущими аспирантами?

— Тебя там не было?

— Не совсем моё место.

— Но бесплатная еда?

— Не стоит светских бесед.

— Ты проходишь собеседование на место в программе? — спросил он.

— Да. Для группы биологов следующего года. Боже, её глаза горели. — А ты? — спросила она, прижимая к ним ладони.

— Как давно ты здесь?

— Здесь? — пауза. — Шесть лет. Плюс-минус.

— О. Значит, ты скоро выпускаешься?

Мгновение. И еще одно. — Точно.

Он мягко засмеялся. — У тебя не получится.

— О, — она улыбнулась. — Раздражающие родители?

— И ещё более худшие Дни Благодарения.

Это было не совсем неприятно.

— Ты не американка? — спросил он.

— Ты так думаешь? — невозмутимо сказал он.

Он отпустил её, и она поняла, что схватила его за руку. Упс.

Бестселлеры Amazon этой недели

Один из крупнейших книжных онлайн‑магазинов мира Amazon.com ведет подробную статистику продаж и еженедельно обновляет топ‑20 бестселлеров художественной литературы. Именно в этот список нам особо интересно заглянуть. В его лидеры попадают исключительно отличные книги, за которые дотошные читатели проголосовали рублем.

Мы следим за списком Amazon.com, и многие новинки, которые входят в него, сразу же попадают в планы издательства на скорейший перевод и выпуск книги для русскоязычных читателей. Знакомим вас с бестселлерами этой недели.

В лидеры прорвался новый роман «Враг у ворот» (Enemy at the Gate) Кайла Миллса — мастера политических триллеров и шпионских детективов. Все дело в том, что он был сыном агента ФБР и провел детство в разных странах, где работал его отец. Он вырос на историях о политических заговорах, изощренных кротах и шпионских скандалах. В России автор известен по его раннему роману «Обжигающий фактор», который Издательство АСТ выпускало много лет назад.

«Враг у ворот» (Enemy at the Gate) Кайл Миллс

На втором месте рейтинга — писательница Лаура Дейв с детективным романом «Последнее, что он сказал мне». Между прочим, роман держится в топе продаж уже 20‑ю неделю. Это произведение о сложных взаимоотношениях главных героев, которое лучше обозначить как драму с детективным сюжетом.

«Последнее, что он сказал мне» (The Last Thing He Told Me) Лауры Дейв

На третьем месте новый роман уже хорошо нам известного Колсона Уайтхеда, автора «Подземной железной дороги», получившей престижную Пулитцеровскую премию. Его новое великолепное произведение Harlem Shuffle рассказывает об ограблениях, вымогательствах и грабежах, которые происходят в Гарлеме в 60‑х годах.

«Harlem Shuffle» Колсона Уайтхеда

15 недель на вершине продаж находится роман популярной англоязычной писательницы Колин Гувер, специализирующейся на любовных романах. Сразу две ее книги входят в топ‑20 бестселлеров Amazon этой недели — душещипательное произведение «Все закончится на нас» (It Ends with Us) и «Истина» (Verity).

«Истина» (Verity) Колин Гувер

«Все закончится на нас» (It Ends with Us) Колин Гувер

42 недели в топе держится фэнтези «Полночная библиотека» (The Midnight Library) хорошо нам известного по детским произведениям Мэтта Хейга. Но этот автор пишет и для взрослых. Учительница Нора перед самой смертью попадает в странную огромную библиотеку, где каждая книга — эта одна из упущенных ею возможностей. И вот между жизнью и смертью Нора читает эти книги, в каждой из которых она проживает собственную, но совсем другую жизнь.

«Полночная библиотека» (The Midnight Library) Мэтта Хейга

Новый фантастический роман Энди Вейера «Проект „Аве Мария“» (Project Hail Mary), который вышел в мае, держится в лидерах продаж все 20 недель своего существования. Автор знаменитого «Марсианина» отправил героя нового романа к далекой звезде в полном одиночестве. Судя по первым отзывам, фантастика Вейера насыщена достоверными научными фактами и неожиданными поворотами в развитии сюжета. Издательство АСТ подготовило русский перевод к печати, а книгу стоит искать в магазинах уже в начале 2022 года. Кстати, Райан Гослинг уже готовится сняться в экранизации «Проекта „Аве Мария“».

«Проект „Аве Мария“» (Project Hail Mary) Энди Вейера

Прекрасно продается и восемь недель подряд уверенно держится в списке лидеров совершенно новая книга Стивена Кинга «Билли Саммерс». Произведение американского писателя в переводе Екатерины Романовой готовится к печати в Издательстве АСТ и выйдет весной 2022 года.

После «Девушки в поезде» от Полы Хокинс ждали следующего сильного романа‑триллера и вот он перед вами и в топе Amazon. «Догорает медленный огонь» (A Slow Fire Burning) уже переведен на русский язык и готов к печати. Так что ждем готовую книгу в конце этого года или в начале следующего, чтобы поклонники Полы Хокинс (которую они прозвали новым Дэном Брауном) смогли удовлетворить свое любопытство.

«Догорает медленный огонь» (A Slow Fire Burning) Полы Хокинс

Чрезвычайная плодовитость американской писательницы Мелинды Ли (а она пишет по три‑четыре детективных романа в год) не мешает ей с каждым романом подниматься на вершины различных литературных рейтингов. Ее четвертый роман из серии о детективе Бри Таггерт под названием «Прямо за ней» (Right Behind Her) сразу же попал в топ Amazon и в рейтинг бестселлеров The Wall Street Journal.

Первый роман этой серии «Последняя клятва», который вышел на английском только в прошлом году, уже переведен и его можно купить в наших книжных магазинах.

«Прямо за ней» (Right Behind Her) Мелинды Ли

Встречайте совершенно новое имя в англоязычной современной литературе — Али Хейзелвуд (Ali Hazelwood) с ее дебютным ромкомом «Гипотеза любви» (The Love Hypothesis). Все, что мы пока знаем о ней, — это то, что она молодой научный сотрудник, фанатеет от актера Адама Драйвера и котиков, а ее книга о романтических отношениях в научной среде покоряет сердца читательниц, списки бестселлеров и рейтинг продаж Amazon.

«Гипотеза любви» (The Love Hypothesis) Али Хейзелвуд

Традиционно в топе Amazon самых продающихся книг художественной литературы присутствует заслуженная классика. И на этой неделе здесь можно встретить знаменитый роман «1984» Джорджа Оруэлла и «Братство кольца» Джона Р. Р. Толкина. Кстати, 21 сентября исполнилось 84 года вселенной хоббитов и сказке «Хоббит, или Туда и обратно», с которой и началась всемирная слава произведений Толкина.

Толкин Джон Рональд Руэл

Расскажите друзьям:

Политика публикации отзывов

Приветствуем вас в сообществе читающих людей! Мы всегда рады вашим отзывам на наши книги, и предлагаем поделиться своими впечатлениями прямо на сайте издательства АСТ. На нашем сайте действует система премодерации отзывов: вы пишете отзыв, наша команда его читает, после чего он появляется на сайте. Чтобы отзыв был опубликован, он должен соответствовать нескольким простым правилам:

1. Мы хотим увидеть ваш уникальный опыт

На странице книги мы опубликуем уникальные отзывы, которые написали лично вы о конкретной прочитанной вами книге. Общие впечатления о работе издательства, авторах, книгах, сериях, а также замечания по технической стороне работы сайта вы можете оставить в наших социальных сетях или обратиться к нам по почте support@ast.ru.

2. Мы за вежливость

Если книга вам не понравилась, аргументируйте, почему. Мы не публикуем отзывы, содержащие нецензурные, грубые, чисто эмоциональные выражения в адрес книги, автора, издательства или других пользователей сайта.

3. Ваш отзыв должно быть удобно читать

Пишите тексты кириллицей, без лишних пробелов или непонятных символов, необоснованного чередования строчных и прописных букв, старайтесь избегать орфографических и прочих ошибок.

4. Отзыв не должен содержать сторонние ссылки

Мы не принимаем к публикации отзывы, содержащие ссылки на любые сторонние ресурсы.

5. Для замечаний по качеству изданий есть кнопка «Жалобная книга»

Если вы купили книгу, в которой перепутаны местами страницы, страниц не хватает, встречаются ошибки и/или опечатки, пожалуйста, сообщите нам об этом на странице этой книги через форму «Дайте жалобную книгу».

Если вы столкнулись с отсутствием или нарушением порядка страниц, дефектом обложки или внутренней части книги, а также другими примерами типографского брака, вы можете вернуть книгу в магазин, где она была приобретена. У интернет-магазинов также есть опция возврата бракованного товара, подробную информацию уточняйте в соответствующих магазинах.

6. Отзыв – место для ваших впечатлений

Если у вас есть вопросы о том, когда выйдет продолжение интересующей вас книги, почему автор решил не заканчивать цикл, будут ли еще книги в этом оформлении, и другие похожие – задавайте их нам в социальных сетях или по почте support@ast.ru.

7. Мы не отвечаем за работу розничных и интернет-магазинов.

В карточке книги вы можете узнать, в каком интернет-магазине книга в наличии, сколько она стоит и перейти к покупке. Информацию о том, где еще можно купить наши книги, вы найдете в разделе «Где купить». Если у вас есть вопросы, замечания и пожелания по работе и ценовой политике магазинов, где вы приобрели или хотите приобрести книгу, пожалуйста, направляйте их в соответствующий магазин.

8. Мы уважаем законы РФ

Запрещается публиковать любые материалы, которые нарушают или призывают к нарушению законодательства Российской Федерации.

Книга the love hypothesis

“Were your parents busy?”

He sighed. “They were very committed to their jobs. Not very good at making time for anything else.”

She hummed softly, conjuring a mental image: five-year-old Adam showing a stick-figure drawing to tall, distracted parents in dark suits surrounded by secret agents speaking into their headsets. She knew nothing about diplomats. “Were you a happy child?”

“That’s not true at all. You’re very good at making time for others. For me.” She smiled, but he looked away as if embarrassed, and she decided to change the topic. “The only thing I can say in Dutch is ‘ik hou van jou.’ ” Her pronunciation must have been poor, because for a long moment Adam couldn’t parse it. Then he did, and his eyes widened.

“My college roommate had a poster with ‘I love you’ written in every language,” Olive explained. “Right across from my bed. First thing I’d see every morning after waking up.”

“And at the end of year four you knew every language?”

“End of year one. She joined a sorority as a sophomore, which was for the best.” She lowered her gaze, nuzzled her face in his chest, and then looked back up at him. “It’s pretty stupid, if you think about it.”

He leaned into her touch, as if soothed by it. “Waar is de WC?”

“That would be ‘Where’s the restroom?’ ” he explained.

“The little scar. The one above your eyebrow.”

“Ah. Just a stupid fight.”

“A fight?” She chuckled. “Did one of your grads try to kill you?”

“Nah, I was a kid. Though I could see my grads pouring acetonitrile in my coffee.”

“Oh, totally.” She nodded in agreement. “I have one, too.” She pulled her hair behind her shoulder and showed him the small, half-moon-shaped line right next to her temple.

“You know? About my scar?”

“When did you notice? It’s really faint.”

He shrugged and began tracing it with his thumb. “What’s it from?”

“I don’t remember. But my mom said that when I was four there was this huge snowstorm in Toronto. Inches upon inches of snow piling up, the most intense in five decades, you know the drill. And everyone knew it was coming, and she’d been preparing me for days, telling me that we might end up stuck at home for a few days. I was so excited about it that I ran outside and dove headfirst into the snow—except that I did it about half an hour after the storm had started, and ended up hitting my head on a stone.” She laughed softly, and so did Adam. It had been one of her mother’s favorite stories. And now Olive was the only person who could tell it. It lived in her, and no one else. “I miss the snow. California is beautiful, and I hate the cold. But I really miss the snow.”

He continued stroking her scar, a faint smile on his lips. And then, when the silence had settled around them, he said, “Boston will have snow. Next year.”

Her heart thudded. “Yeah.” Except that she wouldn’t be going to Boston, not anymore. She’d have to find another lab. Or not work in a lab at all.

Adam’s hand traveled up her neck, closing gently around her nape. “There are good trails for hiking, where Holden and I used to go in grad school.” He hesitated before adding, “I’d love to take you.”

She closed her eyes, and for a second she let herself imagine it. The black of Adam’s hair against the white snow and the deep greens of the trees. Her boots sinking into the soft ground. Cold air flowing inside her lungs, and a warm hand wrapping around her own. She could almost see the flakes, fluttering behind her eyelids. Bliss.

“You’ll be in California, though,” she said distractedly.

A pause. Too long.

Olive opened her eyes. “Adam?”

He rolled his tongue inside his cheek, as if thinking carefully about his words. “There is a chance that I’ll be moving to Boston.”

She blinked at him, confused. Moving? He’d be moving? “What?” No. What was he saying? Adam was not going to leave Stanford, right? He’d never been—the flight risk had never been real. Right?

“Harvard,” she whispered, feeling incredibly stupid. “You’re moving to Harvard.”

“It’s not decided yet.” His hand was still wrapped around her neck, thumb swiping back and forth across the pulse at the base of her throat. “I’ve been asked to interview, but there’s no official offer.”

“When? When will you interview?” she asked, but didn’t really need his answer. It was all starting to make sense in her head. “Tomorrow. You’re not going home.” He’d never said he would. He’d only told her he’d be leaving the conference early. Oh God. Stupid, Olive. Stupid. “You’re going to Harvard. To interview for the rest of the week.”

“It was the only way to avoid making the department even more suspicious,” he explained. “The conference was a good cover.”

She nodded. It wasn’t good—it was perfect. And God, she felt nauseous. And weak-kneed, even lying down. “They’ll offer you the position,” she murmured, even though he must already know. He was Adam Carlsen, after all. And he’d been asked to interview. They were courting him.

“It’s not certain yet.”

It was. Of course it was. “Why Harvard?” she blurted. “Why—why do you want to leave Stanford?” Her voice shook a little, even though she did her best to sound calm.

“My parents live on the East Coast, and while I have my issues with them, they’re going to need me close sooner or later.” He paused, but Olive could tell that he wasn’t done. She braced herself. “The main reason is Tom. And the grant. I want to transition to doing more similar work, but that will only be possible if we show good results. Being in the same department as Tom would make us infinitely more productive. Professionally, moving’s a no-brainer.”

She’d braced herself, but it still felt like a punch in the sternum that left her void of air, caused her stomach to twist and her heart to drop. Tom. This was about Tom.

“Of course,” she whispered. It helped her voice sound firmer. “It makes sense.”

She couldn’t answer that. She really—she could not answer that. So she hung her head for a few moments, ordered herself to buck the hell up, and lifted it again to smile at him.

She could do this. She would do this. “What time are you leaving tomorrow?” He was probably just moving to another hotel, closer to the Harvard campus.

“Okay.” She leaned forward and buried her face in his throat. They were not going to sleep, not one second. It would be such a waste. “You don’t have to wake me up, when you leave.”

“You’re not going to carry my bags downstairs?”

She laughed into his neck and burrowed deeper into him. This, she thought, this was going to be their perfect night. And their last.

HYPOTHESIS: A heart will break even more easily than the weakest of hydrogen bonds.

It wasn’t the sun high in the sky that woke her up, nor housekeeping—thanks to Adam, likely, and a Do Not Disturb sign on the door. What got Olive out of bed, even though she really, really didn’t want to face the day, was the frantic buzzing on the nightstand.

She buried her face in the pillow, extended her arm to grope her way to her phone, and then brought it to her ear.

One hundred and forty-three from Anh.

Anh: Omg omg OMFG

Anh: Where the hell are you

Anh: OLIVE LOUISE SMITH

Anh: (JK I know you don’t have a middle name)

Anh: (But if you did it would be Louise FIGHT ME you know im right)

Anh: Where ARE U.

Anh: Your missing so much YOU ARE MISSING SO

Anh: WHERE THE HELL IS YOUR ROOM I’M COMING TO YOU

Anh: OL we need to talk about this IN PERSON. 1.

Anh: Are you DEAD?

Anh: You better be IT’S THE ONLY WAY I’LL FORGIVE YOU FOR MISSING THIS OL

Anh: Ol is this real life is iT jUST FANTASY SJFGAJHSGFASF

Olive groaned, rubbed her face, and decided to skip the other 125 messages and text Anh her room number. She went into the bathroom and reached for her toothbrush, trying not to notice that the spot where Adam’s had been was now empty. Whatever Anh was freaking out about, Olive was likely going to be underwhelmed. Jeremy had Irish step-danced at the department social, or Chase had tied a cherry stem with his tongue. Great entertainment value, for sure, but Olive would survive missing either.

She dried her face, thinking that she was doing a great job of not thinking of how sore she was; of how her body was buzzing, vibrating like it had no intention of stopping, not two, not three, not five hours from now; of the faint, comforting scent of Adam on her skin.

Yeah. A great job.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, someone was about to tear down the door. She opened it to find Anh and Malcolm, who hugged her and started talking so loudly and rapidly, she could barely make out the words—though she did catch the terms “paradigm-shifting,” “life-altering,” and “watershed moment in history.”

They chattered their way to Olive’s unused bed and sat down. After a few more moments of overlapping babbling, Olive decided to intervene and lifted her hands.

“Hold on.” She was already coming down with a headache. Today was going to be a nightmare, for so many reasons. “What happened?”

“The weirdest thing,” Anh said.

“Coolest,” Malcolm interrupted. “She means coolest.”

“Where were you, Ol? You said you were going to join us.”

“Here. I just, um, was tired after my talk, and fell asleep and—”

“Lame, Ol, very lame, but I have no time to berate you for your lameness because I need to catch you up with what happened last night—”

“I should tell her,” Malcolm gave Anh a scathing look. “Since it’s about me.”

“Fair enough,” she conceded with a flourishing gesture.

“No. Well, yes. But no.”

“Also yes. But no.”

“The other Spice Girl? The one in the Adidas tracksuit—”

“No. Okay, yes, but don’t focus on celebrities, focus on real life people—”

“Holden Rodrigues,” Anh blurted out impatiently. “He hooked up with Rodrigues at the department social. Ol, it is with utmost regret that I must inform you that you have been dethroned and are no longer the president of the Hot for Teacher club. Will you retire in shame or accept the treasurer position?”

Olive blinked. Several times. An inordinate amount of times. And then heard herself say, “Wow.”

“Isn’t it the weirdest—”

“Coolest, Anh,” Malcolm interjected. “Coolest.”

“Things can be weird in a cool way.”

“Right, but this is pure, one hundred percent cool, zero percent weird—”

“Hold up,” Olive interrupted. Her headache was growing a size or two. “Holden is not even in the department. Why was he at the social?”

“No idea, but you bring up an excellent point, which is that since he’s in pharmacology, we can do whatever we want without having to tell anyone.”

Anh tilted her head. “Is that so?”

“Yep. We checked Stanford’s socialization regulations on our way to CVS to get condoms. Basically foreplay.” He closed his eyes in bliss. “Will I ever step inside a pharmacy again without getting a boner?”

Olive cleared her throat. “I’m so happy for you.” She really was. Though this did feel a bit weird. “How did it happen?”

“I hit on him. It was glorious.”

“He was shameless, Ol. And glorious. I took some pictures.”

Malcolm gasped in outrage. “Okay, that’s illegal and I could sue you. But if I look good in them, do send them my way.”

“And that’s not even the best part. He wants to see me again. Today. A date. He used the word ‘date’ unprompted.” He fell back on the mattress. “He’s so hot. And funny. And nice. A sweet, filthy beast.”

Malcolm looked so happy, Olive couldn’t resist: she swallowed the lump that had taken residence in her throat sometime last night and jumped on the bed next to him, hugging him as tight as she could. Anh followed and did the same.

“I’m so happy for you, Malcolm.”

“Same.” Anh’s voice was muffled against his hair.

“I am happy for me, too. I hope he’s serious. You know when I said I was training for gold? Well, Holden’s platinum.”

&nbs
p; “You should ask Carlsen, Ol,” Anh suggested. “If he knows what Holden’s intentions are.”

She probably wasn’t going to have the opportunity anytime soon. “I will.”

Malcolm shifted a bit and turned to Olive. “Did you really fall asleep last night? Or were you and Carlsen celebrating in unmentionable ways?”

“I told Holden that I was worried about you, and he said that you guys were probably celebrating. Something about Carlsen’s funds being released? By the way, you never told me Carlsen and Holden were best friends—it seems like a piece of information you’d want to share with your Holden-Rodrigues-fan-club-founder-and-most-vocal-member roommate—”

“Maybe? Holden said something about the department chair finally easing up. I tried to pay attention, but talking about Carlsen is a bit of a buzzkill—no offense. Plus, I kept getting lost in Holden’s eyes.”

“And his butt,” Anh added.

“And his butt.” Malcolm sighed happily. “Such a nice butt. He has little dimples on his lower back.”

“Oh my God, so does Jeremy! I want to bite them.”

“Aren’t they the cutest?”

Olive stopped listening and stood from the bed, grabbing her phone to read the date.

It was September twenty-ninth.

She closed her eyes, shut tight, while Anh and Malcolm’s excited chattering kept rising in volume in the background. When she opened them, her phone lit up with a new notification. From Adam.

Книга the love hypothesis

Моим женщинам в STEM: Кейт, Кейти, Хатун и Мар. Per aspera ad aspera. 1

Честно говоря, Оливия немного сомневалась насчет аспирантуры.

Парень, чье имя она так и не узнала.

Парень, которого она встретила, наткнувшись вслепую на первый попавшийся туалет.

— Я… это женский туалет? — заикаясь, спросила она.

— Вполне, поскольку это туалет моей лаборатории.

— О, простите. Я думала… — Плохо. Она плохо думала, это было её привычкой и проклятием.

— Конечно. Почему вы спрашиваете?

— Потому что вы плачете. В моей ванной.

— О, я не плачу. Ну, вроде как плачу, но это просто слезы, понимаете?

— Ты вставила просроченные линзы? — он звучал лично оскорбленным.

— Что значит «немного»?

— Я не знаю. Несколько лет?

— Что? — его согласные были резкими и точными. Четкие. Приятные.

— Только пару лет, я думаю.

— Всё нормально. Сроки годности — для слабых.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что делала это раньше?

Она нахмурилась. — Делала что?

— Вставляла просроченные линзы.

— Конечно. Они стоят недешево.

Хм. Хорошая мысль. — Эй, мы уже встречались? Может быть, вчера вечером, на ужине с будущими аспирантами?

— Тебя там не было?

— Не совсем моё место.

— Но бесплатная еда?

— Не стоит светских бесед.

— Ты проходишь собеседование на место в программе? — спросил он.

— Да. Для группы биологов следующего года. Боже, её глаза горели. — А ты? — спросила она, прижимая к ним ладони.

— Как давно ты здесь?

— Здесь? — пауза. — Шесть лет. Плюс-минус.

— О. Значит, ты скоро выпускаешься?

Мгновение. И еще одно. — Точно.

Он мягко засмеялся. — У тебя не получится.

— О, — она улыбнулась. — Раздражающие родители?

— И ещё более худшие Дни Благодарения.

Это было не совсем неприятно.

— Ты не американка? — спросил он.

— Ты так думаешь? — невозмутимо сказал он.

Он отпустил её, и она поняла, что схватила его за руку. Упс.

Книга the love hypothesis

Моим женщинам в STEM: Кейт, Кейти, Хатун и Мар. Per aspera ad aspera. 1

Честно говоря, Оливия немного сомневалась насчет аспирантуры.

Парень, чье имя она так и не узнала.

Парень, которого она встретила, наткнувшись вслепую на первый попавшийся туалет.

— Я… это женский туалет? — заикаясь, спросила она.

— Вполне, поскольку это туалет моей лаборатории.

— О, простите. Я думала… — Плохо. Она плохо думала, это было её привычкой и проклятием.

— Конечно. Почему вы спрашиваете?

— Потому что вы плачете. В моей ванной.

— О, я не плачу. Ну, вроде как плачу, но это просто слезы, понимаете?

— Ты вставила просроченные линзы? — он звучал лично оскорбленным.

— Что значит «немного»?

— Я не знаю. Несколько лет?

— Что? — его согласные были резкими и точными. Четкие. Приятные.

— Только пару лет, я думаю.

— Всё нормально. Сроки годности — для слабых.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что делала это раньше?

Она нахмурилась. — Делала что?

— Вставляла просроченные линзы.

— Конечно. Они стоят недешево.

Хм. Хорошая мысль. — Эй, мы уже встречались? Может быть, вчера вечером, на ужине с будущими аспирантами?

— Тебя там не было?

— Не совсем моё место.

— Но бесплатная еда?

— Не стоит светских бесед.

— Ты проходишь собеседование на место в программе? — спросил он.

— Да. Для группы биологов следующего года. Боже, её глаза горели. — А ты? — спросила она, прижимая к ним ладони.

— Как давно ты здесь?

— Здесь? — пауза. — Шесть лет. Плюс-минус.

— О. Значит, ты скоро выпускаешься?

Мгновение. И еще одно. — Точно.

Он мягко засмеялся. — У тебя не получится.

— О, — она улыбнулась. — Раздражающие родители?

— И ещё более худшие Дни Благодарения.

Это было не совсем неприятно.

— Ты не американка? — спросил он.

— Ты так думаешь? — невозмутимо сказал он.

Он отпустил её, и она поняла, что схватила его за руку. Упс.

Книга the love hypothesis

Моим женщинам в STEM: Кейт, Кейти, Хатун и Мар. Per aspera ad aspera. 1

Честно говоря, Оливия немного сомневалась насчет аспирантуры.

Парень, чье имя она так и не узнала.

Парень, которого она встретила, наткнувшись вслепую на первый попавшийся туалет.

— Я… это женский туалет? — заикаясь, спросила она.

— Вполне, поскольку это туалет моей лаборатории.

— О, простите. Я думала… — Плохо. Она плохо думала, это было её привычкой и проклятием.

— Конечно. Почему вы спрашиваете?

— Потому что вы плачете. В моей ванной.

— О, я не плачу. Ну, вроде как плачу, но это просто слезы, понимаете?

— Ты вставила просроченные линзы? — он звучал лично оскорбленным.

— Что значит «немного»?

— Я не знаю. Несколько лет?

— Что? — его согласные были резкими и точными. Четкие. Приятные.

— Только пару лет, я думаю.

— Всё нормально. Сроки годности — для слабых.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что делала это раньше?

Она нахмурилась. — Делала что?

— Вставляла просроченные линзы.

— Конечно. Они стоят недешево.

Хм. Хорошая мысль. — Эй, мы уже встречались? Может быть, вчера вечером, на ужине с будущими аспирантами?

— Тебя там не было?

— Не совсем моё место.

— Но бесплатная еда?

— Не стоит светских бесед.

— Ты проходишь собеседование на место в программе? — спросил он.

— Да. Для группы биологов следующего года. Боже, её глаза горели. — А ты? — спросила она, прижимая к ним ладони.

— Как давно ты здесь?

— Здесь? — пауза. — Шесть лет. Плюс-минус.

— О. Значит, ты скоро выпускаешься?

Мгновение. И еще одно. — Точно.

Он мягко засмеялся. — У тебя не получится.

— О, — она улыбнулась. — Раздражающие родители?

— И ещё более худшие Дни Благодарения.

Это было не совсем неприятно.

— Ты не американка? — спросил он.

— Ты так думаешь? — невозмутимо сказал он.

Он отпустил её, и она поняла, что схватила его за руку. Упс.

The Love Hypothesis

Книга the love hypothesis

Моим женщинам в STEM: Кейт, Кейти, Хатун и Мар. Per aspera ad aspera. 1

Честно говоря, Оливия немного сомневалась насчет аспирантуры.

Парень, чье имя она так и не узнала.

Парень, которого она встретила, наткнувшись вслепую на первый попавшийся туалет.

— Я… это женский туалет? — заикаясь, спросила она.

— Вполне, поскольку это туалет моей лаборатории.

— О, простите. Я думала… — Плохо. Она плохо думала, это было её привычкой и проклятием.

— Конечно. Почему вы спрашиваете?

— Потому что вы плачете. В моей ванной.

— О, я не плачу. Ну, вроде как плачу, но это просто слезы, понимаете?

— Ты вставила просроченные линзы? — он звучал лично оскорбленным.

— Что значит «немного»?

— Я не знаю. Несколько лет?

— Что? — его согласные были резкими и точными. Четкие. Приятные.

— Только пару лет, я думаю.

— Всё нормально. Сроки годности — для слабых.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что делала это раньше?

Она нахмурилась. — Делала что?

— Вставляла просроченные линзы.

— Конечно. Они стоят недешево.

Хм. Хорошая мысль. — Эй, мы уже встречались? Может быть, вчера вечером, на ужине с будущими аспирантами?

— Тебя там не было?

— Не совсем моё место.

— Но бесплатная еда?

— Не стоит светских бесед.

— Ты проходишь собеседование на место в программе? — спросил он.

— Да. Для группы биологов следующего года. Боже, её глаза горели. — А ты? — спросила она, прижимая к ним ладони.

— Как давно ты здесь?

— Здесь? — пауза. — Шесть лет. Плюс-минус.

— О. Значит, ты скоро выпускаешься?

Мгновение. И еще одно. — Точно.

Он мягко засмеялся. — У тебя не получится.

— О, — она улыбнулась. — Раздражающие родители?

— И ещё более худшие Дни Благодарения.

Это было не совсем неприятно.

— Ты не американка? — спросил он.

— Ты так думаешь? — невозмутимо сказал он.

Он отпустил её, и она поняла, что схватила его за руку. Упс.

Love hypothesis, Hazelwood, Ali

Автор: Hazelwood, Ali
Название: Love Hypothesis, The
ISBN: 0593336828 ISBN-13(EAN): 9780593336823
Издательство: Random House (USA)
Рейтинг:
Цена: 1936 р.
Наличие на складе: Ожидается поступление.

Описание: A BuzzFeed Best Summer Read of 2021

When a fake relationship between scientists meets the irresistible force of attraction, it throws one woman’s carefully calculated theories on love into chaos.

Автор: Hazelwood Ann
Название: Lily Girl`s Christmas Quilt
ISBN: 1683391160 ISBN-13(EAN): 9781683391166
Издательство: Неизвестно
Цена: 1973 р.
Наличие на складе: Нет в наличии.

Описание: Lily Girl’s Christmas Quilt is the second novel in Ann Hazelwood’s Wine Country Quilts Series. Christmas is Lily Rosenthal’s favorite time of year, and she is eager to experience the Christmas traditions of the Wine Country, but she cherishes each Christmas with her family. This year, the sisters celebrate in Green Bay, Wisconsin, which is the home of Lily’s sister, Loretta. The family receives the best Christmas present ever, which arrives on Christmas Day. Lily attempts new challenges by making a sampler Christmas quilt, but the real Christmas quilt she so admires is beyond her reach. Thanks to her Christmas gift from Alex, LIFE WITH LILY GIRL becomes a writer’s dream come true.

Автор: Urbinati Rob
Название: Hazelwood Jr. High
ISBN: 0573697051 ISBN-13(EAN): 9780573697050
Издательство: Неизвестно
Цена: 1445 р.
Наличие на складе: Нет в наличии.

Автор: Hazelwood Art
Название: Hobos to Street People: Artists` Responses to Homelessness from the New Deal to the Present
ISBN: 0915117207 ISBN-13(EAN): 9780915117208
Издательство: Неизвестно
Цена: 3425 р.
Наличие на складе: Нет в наличии.

The Love Hypothesis

Love Hypothesis, The. Hazelwood A.

Аннотация к книге «Love Hypothesis, The» Hazelwood A.:
The Instant New York Times Bestseller and TikTok Sensation!

As seen on THE VIEW!

A BuzzFeed Best Summer Read of 2021

When a fake relationship between scientists meets the irresistible force of attraction, it throws one woman’s carefully calculated theories on love into chaos.

Книга the love hypothesis

Книга достойная, автору спасибо за доставленное удовольствие, рекомендую к прочтению

Ледокол спешит на помошь

Огни, камера, игра [ЛП]

Кухарка тайного советника

Прочитала с интересом! Книга понравилась!

Пешка для Ферзя

Прочитала с удовольствием!

Спасибо. Очень интересно и впечатляющий расказ.

Поющие в клоповнике [СИ]

The Love Hypothesis

Рейтинг: 0/5 (Всего голосов: 0)

Аннотация

Книга the love hypothesis

Моим женщинам в STEM: Кейт, Кейти, Хатун и Мар. Per aspera ad aspera. 1

Честно говоря, Оливия немного сомневалась насчет аспирантуры.

Парень, чье имя она так и не узнала.

Парень, которого она встретила, наткнувшись вслепую на первый попавшийся туалет.

— Я… это женский туалет? — заикаясь, спросила она.

— Вполне, поскольку это туалет моей лаборатории.

— О, простите. Я думала… — Плохо. Она плохо думала, это было её привычкой и проклятием.

— Конечно. Почему вы спрашиваете?

— Потому что вы плачете. В моей ванной.

— О, я не плачу. Ну, вроде как плачу, но это просто слезы, понимаете?

— Ты вставила просроченные линзы? — он звучал лично оскорбленным.

— Что значит «немного»?

— Я не знаю. Несколько лет?

— Что? — его согласные были резкими и точными. Четкие. Приятные.

— Только пару лет, я думаю.

— Всё нормально. Сроки годности — для слабых.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что делала это раньше?

Она нахмурилась. — Делала что?

— Вставляла просроченные линзы.

— Конечно. Они стоят недешево.

Хм. Хорошая мысль. — Эй, мы уже встречались? Может быть, вчера вечером, на ужине с будущими аспирантами?

— Тебя там не было?

— Не совсем моё место.

— Но бесплатная еда?

— Не стоит светских бесед.

— Ты проходишь собеседование на место в программе? — спросил он.

— Да. Для группы биологов следующего года. Боже, её глаза горели. — А ты? — спросила она, прижимая к ним ладони.

— Как давно ты здесь?

— Здесь? — пауза. — Шесть лет. Плюс-минус.

— О. Значит, ты скоро выпускаешься?

Мгновение. И еще одно. — Точно.

Он мягко засмеялся. — У тебя не получится.

— О, — она улыбнулась. — Раздражающие родители?

— И ещё более худшие Дни Благодарения.

Это было не совсем неприятно.

— Ты не американка? — спросил он.

— Ты так думаешь? — невозмутимо сказал он.

Он отпустил её, и она поняла, что схватила его за руку. Упс.

Книга the love hypothesis

Моим женщинам в STEM: Кейт, Кейти, Хатун и Мар. Per aspera ad aspera. 1

Честно говоря, Оливия немного сомневалась насчет аспирантуры.

Парень, чье имя она так и не узнала.

Парень, которого она встретила, наткнувшись вслепую на первый попавшийся туалет.

— Я… это женский туалет? — заикаясь, спросила она.

— Вполне, поскольку это туалет моей лаборатории.

— О, простите. Я думала… — Плохо. Она плохо думала, это было её привычкой и проклятием.

— Конечно. Почему вы спрашиваете?

— Потому что вы плачете. В моей ванной.

— О, я не плачу. Ну, вроде как плачу, но это просто слезы, понимаете?

— Ты вставила просроченные линзы? — он звучал лично оскорбленным.

— Что значит «немного»?

— Я не знаю. Несколько лет?

— Что? — его согласные были резкими и точными. Четкие. Приятные.

— Только пару лет, я думаю.

— Всё нормально. Сроки годности — для слабых.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что делала это раньше?

Она нахмурилась. — Делала что?

— Вставляла просроченные линзы.

— Конечно. Они стоят недешево.

Хм. Хорошая мысль. — Эй, мы уже встречались? Может быть, вчера вечером, на ужине с будущими аспирантами?

— Тебя там не было?

— Не совсем моё место.

— Но бесплатная еда?

— Не стоит светских бесед.

— Ты проходишь собеседование на место в программе? — спросил он.

— Да. Для группы биологов следующего года. Боже, её глаза горели. — А ты? — спросила она, прижимая к ним ладони.

— Как давно ты здесь?

— Здесь? — пауза. — Шесть лет. Плюс-минус.

— О. Значит, ты скоро выпускаешься?

Мгновение. И еще одно. — Точно.

Он мягко засмеялся. — У тебя не получится.

— О, — она улыбнулась. — Раздражающие родители?

— И ещё более худшие Дни Благодарения.

Это было не совсем неприятно.

— Ты не американка? — спросил он.

— Ты так думаешь? — невозмутимо сказал он.

Он отпустил её, и она поняла, что схватила его за руку. Упс.

Книга the love hypothesis

Praise for The Love Hypothesis

—New York Times bestselling author Christina Lauren

“Funny, sexy, and smart. Ali Hazelwood did a terrific job with The Love Hypothesis.”

—New York Times bestselling author Mariana Zapata

—New York Times bestselling author Jessica Clare

“A beautifully written romantic comedy with a heroine you will instantly fall in love with, The Love Hypothesis is destined to earn a place on your keeper shelf.”

—Elizabeth Everett, author of A Lady’s Formula for Love

Published by Berkley

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Hazelwood, Ali, author.

Title: The love hypothesis / Ali Hazelwood.

Description: First edition. | New York: Jove, 2021.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020057346 (print) | LCCN 2020057347 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593336823 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593336830 (ebook)

Subjects: GSAFD: Love stories.

Classification: LCC PS3608.A98845 L68 2021 (print) | LCC PS3608.A98845 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020057346

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020057347

First Edition: September 2021

Cover illustration by lilithsaur

Book design by Tiffany Estreicher, adapted for ebook by Estelle Malmed

To my women in STEM: Kate, Caitie, Hatun, and Mar. Per aspera ad aspera.

Praise for The Love Hypothesis

Excerpt from LOVE ON THE BRAIN

About the Author

A supposition or proposed explanation made on the basis of limited evidence, as a starting point for further investigation.

Example: “Based on the available information and the data hitherto collected, my hypothesis is that the farther away I stay from love, the better off I will be.”

Frankly, Olive was a bit on the fence about this whole grad school thing.

The Guy whose name she never really got.

The Guy she met after stumbling blindly into the first bathroom she could find.

The Guy who asked her, “Out of curiosity, is there a specific reason you’re crying in my restroom?”

A pause. Silence. And then: “Nope.” His voice was deep. So deep. Really deep. Dreamy deep.

“Fairly, since this is my lab’s bathroom.”

“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?”

“You put in expired contacts?” He sounded personally offended.

“Just a little expired.”

“I don’t know. A few years?”

“What?” His consonants were sharp and precise. Crisp. Pleasant.

“Only just a couple, I think.”

“Just a couple of years?”

“It’s okay. Expiration dates are for the weak.”

A sharp sound—some kind of snort. “Expiration dates are so I don’t find you weeping in the corner of my bathroom.”

Unless this dude was Mr. Stanford himself, he really needed to stop calling this his bathroom.

“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?”

She frowned. “Done what?”

“Put in expired contacts.”

“Of course. Contacts are not cheap.”

“Neither are eyes.”

Humph. Good point. “Hey, have we met? Maybe last night, at the recruitment dinner with prospective Ph.D. students?”

“You weren’t there?”

“Not really my scene.”

“But the free food?”

“Not worth the small talk.”

“Are you interviewing for a spot in the program?” he asked.

“Yup. For next year’s biology cohort.” God, her eyes were burning. “What about you?” she asked, pressing her palms into them.

“How long have you been here?”

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

“Oh. Are you graduating soon, then?”

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.”

A beat. And then another. “Right.”

He laughed softly. “You could never.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “Annoying parents?”

“And even worse Thanksgivings.”

It was not entirely unpleasant.

“You’re not American?” he asked.

“You think so?” he deadpanned.

She would have glared at him if she could. Though maybe she was doing a decent job of it anyway, because he laughed—just a huff, but Olive could tell. And she kind of liked it.

He let go of her, and she realized that she’d been gripping his hand. Oops.

“Are you planning to enroll?” he asked.

“Are you planning to enroll if you get an offer, then?”

She’d be stupid not to. This was Stanford, after all—one of the best biology programs. Or at least, that was what Olive had been telling herself to cover the petrifying truth.

Which was that, frankly, she was a bit on the fence about this whole grad school thing.

“Seems like you’re leaning toward screwup.” He sounded like he was smiling.

“Why do you want to do it?”

“Get a Ph.D. What’s your reason?”

Olive cleared her throat. “I’ve always had an inquisitive mind, and graduate school is the ideal environment to foster that. It’ll give me important transferable skills—”

She frowned. “What?”

“Not the line you found in an interview prep book. Why do you want a Ph.D.?”

“It’s true,” she insisted, a bit weakly. “I want to sharpen my research abilities—”

“Is it because you don’t know what else to do?”

“Because you didn’t get an industry position?”

“No—I didn’t even apply for industry.”

“I need more freedom than industry can offer.”

Olive scowled. “Are you trying to get me to decline my offer? Is this some kind of anti–expired-contacts-wearers campaign?”

She could hear his smile.

“I’ll go ahead and trust that it was just a misstep.”

“I wear them all the time, and they almost never—”

She felt the air shift and realized that he was now leaning against the sink.

He nodded but said nothing as he straightened and took a few steps toward the door. Clearly leaving.

“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.”

He was smiling, she thought. Or something like it.

“Good luck on your interview, Olive.”

He was almost out the door already.

“Maybe I’ll see you next year,” she babbled, flushing a little. “If I get in. And if you haven’t graduated.”

“Maybe,” she heard him say.

With that, The Guy was gone. And Olive never got his name. But a few weeks later, when the Stanford biology department extended her an offer, she accepted it. Without hesitating.

HYPOTHESIS: When given a choice between A (a slightly inconveniencing situation) and B (a colossal shitshow with devastating consequences), I will inevitably end up selecting B.

Two years, eleven months later

In Olive’s defense, the man didn’t seem to mind the kiss too much.

Книга the love hypothesis

Моим женщинам в STEM: Кейт, Кейти, Хатун и Мар. Per aspera ad aspera. 1

Честно говоря, Оливия немного сомневалась насчет аспирантуры.

Парень, чье имя она так и не узнала.

Парень, которого она встретила, наткнувшись вслепую на первый попавшийся туалет.

— Я… это женский туалет? — заикаясь, спросила она.

— Вполне, поскольку это туалет моей лаборатории.

— О, простите. Я думала… — Плохо. Она плохо думала, это было её привычкой и проклятием.

— Конечно. Почему вы спрашиваете?

— Потому что вы плачете. В моей ванной.

— О, я не плачу. Ну, вроде как плачу, но это просто слезы, понимаете?

— Ты вставила просроченные линзы? — он звучал лично оскорбленным.

— Что значит «немного»?

— Я не знаю. Несколько лет?

— Что? — его согласные были резкими и точными. Четкие. Приятные.

— Только пару лет, я думаю.

— Всё нормально. Сроки годности — для слабых.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что делала это раньше?

Она нахмурилась. — Делала что?

— Вставляла просроченные линзы.

— Конечно. Они стоят недешево.

Хм. Хорошая мысль. — Эй, мы уже встречались? Может быть, вчера вечером, на ужине с будущими аспирантами?

— Тебя там не было?

— Не совсем моё место.

— Но бесплатная еда?

— Не стоит светских бесед.

— Ты проходишь собеседование на место в программе? — спросил он.

— Да. Для группы биологов следующего года. Боже, её глаза горели. — А ты? — спросила она, прижимая к ним ладони.

— Как давно ты здесь?

— Здесь? — пауза. — Шесть лет. Плюс-минус.

— О. Значит, ты скоро выпускаешься?

Мгновение. И еще одно. — Точно.

Он мягко засмеялся. — У тебя не получится.

— О, — она улыбнулась. — Раздражающие родители?

— И ещё более худшие Дни Благодарения.

Это было не совсем неприятно.

— Ты не американка? — спросил он.

— Ты так думаешь? — невозмутимо сказал он.

Он отпустил её, и она поняла, что схватила его за руку. Упс.

Книга the love hypothesis

The Love Hypothesis

Новая технология редактирования геномов высших организмов, базирующаяся на иммунной системе бактерий.

The Love Hypothesis

Сеть ресторанов быстрого обслуживания.

The Love Hypothesis

Еженедельный рецензируемый общий медицинский журнал.

The Love Hypothesis

Сайт электронных объявлений.

The Love Hypothesis

Перенос определённых белков или нуклеиновых кислот из раствора, содержащего множество других молекул, на какой-либо носитель в целях последующего анализа.

The Love Hypothesis

Калифорнийский университет в Сан-Франциско.

The Love Hypothesis

Серия компьютерных игр.

The Love Hypothesis

Национальные институты здоровья.

The Love Hypothesis

Суть игры заключается в том, что участники отвечают на вопросы из области общих знаний: каждый вопрос представлен в виде утверждения о некоем предмете, а игрок должен дать свой ответ в форме вопроса, назвав искомый предмет.

The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood

HYPOTHESIS: When given a choice between A (a slightly inconveniencing situation) and B (a colossal shitshow with devastating consequences), I will inevitably end up selecting B.

Two years, eleven months later

In Olive’s defense, the man didn’t seem to mind the kiss too much.

It did take him a moment to adjust—perfectly understandable, given the sudden circumstances. It was an awkward, uncomfortable, somewhat painful minute, in which Olive was simultaneously smashing her lips against his and pushing herself as high as her toes would extend to keep her mouth at the same level as his face. Did he have to be so tall? The kiss must have looked like some clumsy headbutt, and she grew anxious that she was not going to be able to pull the whole thing off. Her friend Anh, whom Olive had spotted coming her way a few seconds ago, was going to take one look at this and know at once that Olive and Kiss Dude couldn’t possibly be two people in the middle of a date.

She should not be enjoying this. Random dude, and all that.

Because Dr. Adam Carlsen was a known ass.

He was the reason Olive’s roommate, Malcolm, had to completely scrap two research projects and would likely end up graduating a year late; the one who had made Jeremy throw up from anxiety before his qualifying exams; the sole culprit for half the students in the department being forced to postpone their thesis defenses. Joe, who used to be in Olive’s cohort and would take her to watch out-of-focus European movies with microscopic subtitles every Thursday night, had been a research assistant in Carlsen’s lab, but he’d decided to drop out six months into it for “reasons.” It was probably for the best, since most of Carlsen’s remaining graduate assistants had perennially shaky hands and often looked like they hadn’t slept in a year.

And Olive had just kissed him.

Adam Carlsen. Destroyer of research careers, Olive had once overheard her adviser say.

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.

Still, it was worth a try.

Surprisingly, it seemed to work.

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

“I—” She buried her face in her hands. “It’s not the way it looks.”

Olive exhaled in relief. “Yeah. That would be great, since— Wait. Your what?”

He cocked his head. “Title IX is a federal law that protects against sexual misconduct within academic settings—”

“I know what Title IX is.”

“I see. So you willfully chose to disregard it.”

“I— What? No. No, I didn’t!”

He shrugged. “I must be mistaken, then. Someone else must have assaulted me.”

“Assault—I didn’t ‘assault’ you.”

“You did kiss me.”

“Without first securing my consent.”

“I asked if I could kiss you!”

“And then did so without waiting for my response.”

“What? You said yes.”

She frowned. “I asked if I could kiss you, and you said yes.”

“Incorrect. You asked if you could kiss me and I snorted.”

“I’m pretty sure I heard you said yes.”

He lifted one eyebrow, and for a minute Olive let herself daydream of drowning someone. Dr. Carlsen. Herself. Both sounded like great options.

“Listen, I’m really sorry. It was a weird situation. Can we just forget that this happened?”

He studied her for a long moment, his angular face serious and something else, something that she couldn’t quite decipher because she was too busy noticing all over again how damn towering and broad he was. Just massive. Olive had always been slight, just this side of too slender, but girls who are five eight rarely felt diminutive. At least until they found themselves standing next to Adam Carlsen. She’d known that he was tall, of course, from seeing him around the department or walking across campus, from sharing the elevator with him, but they’d never interacted. Never been this close.

Except for a second ago, Olive. When you almost put your tongue in his—

“Is there something wrong?” He sounded almost concerned.

“What? No. No, there isn’t.”

“Because,” he continued calmly, “kissing a stranger at midnight in a science lab might be a sign that there is.”

Carlsen nodded, thoughtful. “Very well. Expect mail in the next few days, then.” He began to walk past her, and she turned to yell after him.

“You didn’t even ask my name!”

“I’m sure anyone could figure it out, since you must have swiped your badge to get in the labs area after hours. Have a good night.”

She let go of him at once and took one step back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“The kiss. Explain.”

Carlsen gave no indication of knowing who Anh was.

“Ah.” His expression was unreadable.

Carlsen didn’t say anything, but it was there in his eyes that he was thinking, Obviously.

“I just needed her to believe that I was on a date.”

He nodded. “So you kissed the first person you saw in the hallway. Perfectly logical.”

Olive winced. “When you put it like that, perhaps it wasn’t my best moment.”

Maybe it was the late night. Maybe it was that her last coffee had been sixteen hours ago. Maybe it was Adam Carlsen looking down at her, like that. All of a sudden, this entire situation was just too much.

“Olive,” she heard him call after her. “Olive, wait—”

Shit. What a disaster of a day.

It never occurred to Olive that Dr. Adam Carlsen—known ass—had called her by her name.

Источники:

Книга the love hypothesis

Гипотеза любви

Гипотеза любви

О книге

Фишки книги

Для кого эта книга

Об авторах

Книга the love hypothesis

The Love Hypothesis

Али Хейзелвуд

Лучшая рецензия на книгу

Рецензии

Гипотеза любви

Али Хейзелвуд

5 Поцелуй судьбы 🙂

1 Спойлер

5 «Основываясь на имеющейся информации и собранных данных, гипотеза заключается в том, что чем дальше держаться от любви, тем лучше будет»

Гипотеза любви

Али Хейзелвуд

5 Поцелуй судьбы 🙂

1 Спойлер

5 «Основываясь на имеющейся информации и собранных данных, гипотеза заключается в том, что чем дальше держаться от любви, тем лучше будет»

Али Хейзелвуд: Гипотеза любви

The Love Hypothesis

Аннотация к книге «Гипотеза любви»

Книга the love hypothesis

Ледокол спешит на помошь

Огни, камера, игра [ЛП]

Кухарка тайного советника

Пешка для Ферзя

Поющие в клоповнике [СИ]

The Love Hypothesis

Аннотация

The Love Hypothesis

The Love Hypothesis

Али Хейзелвуд

5 Поцелуй судьбы 🙂

1 Спойлер

5 «Основываясь на имеющейся информации и собранных данных, гипотеза заключается в том, что чем дальше держаться от любви, тем лучше будет»

Гипотеза любви

Али Хейзелвуд

Лучшая рецензия на книгу

Рецензии

The Love Hypothesis

Али Хейзелвуд

5 Поцелуй судьбы 🙂

1 Спойлер

5 «Основываясь на имеющейся информации и собранных данных, гипотеза заключается в том, что чем дальше держаться от любви, тем лучше будет»

4.5 I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.

4 Спойлер Гипотеза или аксиома

5 А на что вы готовы пойти ради счастья дорогого вам человека?

Похожие книги

Книга the love hypothesis

Книга the love hypothesis

Книга the love hypothesis

Книга the love hypothesis

The Love Hypothesis

Лора Стивен

Лучшая рецензия на книгу

Книга the love hypothesis

Книга the love hypothesis

The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood

The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood

Exclusive Sneak Peek

Love Hypothesis, The, Hazelwood, Ali

Книга the love hypothesis

Книга the love hypothesis

The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood (2021, Trade Paperback)

Галерея изображений

Новые: самая низкая цена

Книга the love hypothesis

Love hypothesis. Hazelwood A.

Гипотеза любви (ЛП)

Бестселлеры Amazon этой недели

Расскажите друзьям:

Читайте также

Политика публикации отзывов

1. Мы хотим увидеть ваш уникальный опыт

2. Мы за вежливость

3. Ваш отзыв должно быть удобно читать