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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.”
‘Carry yourself with the confidence of a mediocre white man.’ ”
“Ik hou van jou, Adam.”
I should give you enough reasons to stay. Is there anything I can do for you? I’ll take you grocery shopping and fill your fridge when we’re back home. Buy you a new bike and a case of decent reagent and that sludge you drink. Kill the people who made you cry. Is there something you need? Name it. It’s yours. If I have it, it’s yours.
And after the last few days, weeks, years, all Olive needs is to have a little quiet. A safe space. A place to run to, not from.
All things he hasn’t allowed himself to look at for weeks—for years. It never mattered: they were always there, stuck in his brain. The curve of her lower back while she opened the seminar door with her shoulder. The line of her throat as she drank from a water bottle. A graceful stretch and a sliver of stomach skin.
He’d almost laughed in his office at being asked to be secretive about dating other women. At the reptilian, greedy part of his brain, thinking: Are there any? I thought it was just you.
