Ali Hazelwood

“It will be fine, Olive.” His smile softened. “And if not, at least it will be over.

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

“Of course I am.”

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 dubious privilege of slaughtering fruit flies in the name of science for ninety cents an hour.

I . . . maybe. I must say, the line between excellent career choice and critical life screwup is getting a bit blurry.”

d soul-sucking circle of hell (i.e., a Ph.D. progra

It looks good. As in, really good. You were probably one of the most handsome men I’d ever talked to last week, but now you look even better. Not that I care about these things. I don’t care at all. I rarely notice guys, and I’m not sure why I’m noticing you, or your hair, or your clothes, or how tall and broad you are. I really don’t get it. I never care. Usually. Ugh.

“At least the department chair is getting a show. And you look like you’re having fun.”

“Carlsen. Oh, actually”—Anh smirked—“I meant to say Adam. You call him Adam, right? Or do you prefer Dr. Carlsen? If you guys role-play with schoolgirl uniforms and rulers, I totally want to hear about it.”

“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.”