PRAISE FORThe Love Hypothesis“Contemporary romance’s unicorn: the elusive marriage ofdeeply brainy and delightfully escapist. . . .The LoveHypothesis has wild commercial appeal, but the quietersecret is that there is a specific audience, made up of all ofthe Olives in the world, who have deeply, ardently waitedfor this exact book.”—New York Times bestselling author ChristinaLauren “Funny, sexy, and smart. Ali Hazelwood dida terrific job withThe Love Hypothesis.”—New York Times bestselling author MarianaZapata “This tackles one of my favorite tropes—Grumpy meets Sunshine—in a fun and utterlyendearing way. . . . I loved the nods towardfandom and romance novels, and I couldn’t put itdown. Highly recommended!”—New York Times bestselling author Jessica Clare“A beautifully written romantic comedy with aheroine you will instantly fall in love with,TheLove Hypothesis is destined to earn a place onyour keeper shelf.”—Elizabeth Everett, author ofA Lady’s Formulafor Love “Smart, witty dialogue and a diverse castof likable secondary characters. . . . A realistic,amusing novel that readers won’t be able to putdown.”—Library Journal (starred review) “With whip-smart and endearing characters, snappy prose,and a quirky take on a favorite trope, Hazelwoodconvincingly navigates the fraught shoals of academia. . . .This smart, sexy contemporary should delight a wide swathof romance lovers.”—Publishers Weekly Titles by Ali HazelwoodThe Love HypothesisLOATHE TO LOVE YOUUnder One RoofStuck with YouBelow Zero Under One RoofAli HazelwoodJOVENew York A JOVE BOOKPublished by BerkleyAn imprint of Penguin Random House LLCpenguinrandomhouse.comCopyright © 2022 by Ali Hazelwood Excerpt fromLove on the Brain copyright © 2021 by AliHazelwood Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diversevoices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorizededition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, ordistributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowingPenguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of PenguinRandom House LLC. Ebook ISBN: 9780593437810Jove audio edition: February 2022Jove ebook edition: May 2022Cover illustration by lilithsaur Adapted for ebook by Cora Wigen This is a work of fiction. Names,characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are usedfictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, orlocales is entirely coincidental.pid_prh_5.8.0_139924578_c0_r1 ContentsCoverPraise for The Love HypothesisTitles by Ali HazelwoodTitle PageCopyrightDedicationPrologueChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13EpilogueExcerpt from Love on the BrainAbout the Author For Becca, who is the best and had the best prompt. ProloguePresentI look at the pile of dishes in the sink and reach a painfulrealization: I’ve got it bad.Actually, scratch that. I already knew I had it bad. But if Ihadn’t, this would be a dead giveaway: the fact that Icannot glance at a colander and twelve dirty forks withoutseeing Liam’s dark eyes as he leans against the counter,arms crossed on his chest; without hearing his stern-yet-teasing voice asking me, “Postmodern installation art? Orare we just out of soap?”It comes right on the trail of arriving home late andnoticing that he left the porch light on for me. That one . . .oh, that one always makes my heart hiccup in a half-lovely,half-wrenching way. Also heart-hiccup inducing: Iremember to turn it off once I’m inside. Very unlike me, andpossibly a sign that the chia seed sludge he’s been makingme for breakfast in the mornings when I’m late for work isactually making my brain smarter.It’s good that I’ve decided to move out. For the best.These heart hiccups are not sustainable in the long term,not to my mental or cardiovascular health. I’m only ahumble beginner at this whole pining thing, but I can safelystate that living with some guy you used to hate andsomehow ended up slipping in love with isnot a wise move.Trust me, I have a doctorate. (In a totally unrelated field, but still.)You know whatis good about the pining? The constantnervous energy. It has me looking at the pile of dishes andthinking that cleaning the kitchen could be a fun activity.When Liam enters the room, I’m riding the unexpectedurge to load the dishwasher as far as it will carry me. Iglance up at him, notice the way he nearly fills thedoorframe, and order my heart not to hiccup. It does itanyway—even adds a flip for good measure.My heart’s a jackass.“You’re probably wondering if a sniper is forcing me todo the dishes at gunpoint.” I beam at Liam without reallyexpecting him to smile back, because—Liam. He’s next toimpossible to read, but I’ve long stopped trying tosee hisamusement, and I just let myselffeel it. It’s nice, and warm,and I want to bathe in it. I want to make him shake hishead, and say “Mara” in that tone of his, and laugh againsthis better judgment. I want to push up on my toes, reachout to fix the dark strand of hair on his forehead, burrowinto his chest to smell the clean, delicious smell of his skin.But I doubthe wants any of that. So I turn back to rinsea cereal bowl hiding under the colander.“I figured you were being mind-controlled by thoseparasitic spores we saw on that documentary.” His voice islow. Rich. I will miss it so,so much.“Those were barnacles— See, I knew you fell asleephalfway.” He doesn’t reply. Which is fine, because—Liam. Aman of few smiles and even fewer words. “So, you know theneighbors’ puppy? That French bulldog? He must havegotten away during a walk, because I just saw him runtoward me in the middle of the street. Leash hanging fromhis neck and all.” I reach out for a towel and my handbumps into him. He’s standing right behind me now. “Oops. Sorry. Anyway, I carried him back home and he was so cute. . .”I stop. Because all of a sudden Liam is not juststandingbehind me. I’m being crowded against the sink, the edge ofthe counter pressed into my hip bones, and there’s a tallwall of heat flat against my back.Oh my God.Is he . . . Did he trip? He must have tripped. This is anaccident.“Liam?”“This okay, Mara?” he asks, but he doesn’t move away.He stays right where he is, front pressed against my back,hands against the counter on each side of my hips, and . . .Is this some kind of lucid dream? Is this a heart-hiccup-generated cardiovascular event? Is my brain converting mymost shameful nighttime fantasies into hallucinations?“Liam?” I whimper, because he is nuzzling my hair. Rightabove my temple, with his nose and maybe even his mouth,and it seems deliberate. Very much not an accident. Is he—? No. No, surely not.But his hands spread on my belly, and that’s what tipsme off that this is different. This doesn’t feel like one ofthose accidental brushing of arms in the hallway, the onesI’ve been telling myself to stop obsessing over. It doesn’tfeel like that time I tripped over my computer cord andalmost stumbled into his lap, and it doesn’t feel like himgently holding my wrist to check how badly I burned mythumb while cooking on the stove. This feels . . . “Liam?”“Shh.” I feel his lips at my temple, warm and reassuring.“Everything’s okay, Mara.”Something hot and liquid begins to coil at the bottom ofmy belly. Chapter 1Six months ago“Frankly,They get on like a house on fire is the mostmisleading saying in the English language. Faulty wiring?Misuse of heating equipment? Suspected arson?Notevocative of two people getting along in the least. You knowwhat a house on fire has me picturing? Bazookas.Flamethrowers. Sirens in the distance. Because nothing ismore guaranteed to start a house fire than two enemiesblowtorching each other’s most prized possession. Want totrigger an explosion? Being nice to your roommate is notgoing to do it. Lighting a match on top of their kerosene-soaked handmade quilt, on the other hand—”“Miss?” The Uber driver turns, looking guilty aboutinterrupting my pre-apocalyptic spiel. “Just a heads-up—we’re about five minutes from your destination.”I smile an apologeticThank you and glance back at myphone. My two best friends’ faces take up the entirescreen. Then, on the upper corner there’s me: more frownythan usual (well justified), more pasty than usual (is thateven possible?), more ginger than usual (must be the filter,right?).“That’s a totally fair take, Mara,” Sadie says with apuzzled expression, “and I encourage you to submit your,um, very valid complaints to Madame Merriam-Webster or whoever’s in charge of these matters, but . . . I literally onlyasked you how the funeral went.”“Yes, Mara—how’d—funeral—go—?” The quality onHannah’s end of the call is pitiful, but that’s business asusual.This, I suppose, is what happens when you meet yourbest friends in grad school: One minute you’re happy as aclam, clutching your shiny brand-new engineering diploma,giggling your way through a fifth round of Midori sours.The next you’re in tears, because you’re all going separateways. FaceTime becomes as necessary as oxygen. Thereare zero neon-green cocktails in sight. Your slightlyderanged monologues don’t happen in the privacy of theapartment you share, but in the semipublic backseat of anUber, while you’re on your way to have a very,very weirdconversation.See, that’s the thing I hate the most about adulting: atsome point, one has to start doing it. Sadie is designingfancy eco-sustainable buildings in New York City. Hannah isfreezing her butt off at some Arctic research station NASAput up in Norway. And as for me . . .I’m here. Moving to D.C. to start my dream job—scientistat the Environmental Protection Agency. On paper, I shouldbe over the moon. But paper burnsso fast. As fast ashouses on fire.“Helena’s funeral was . . . interesting.” I lean backagainst the seat. “I guess that’s the upside of knowing thatyou’re about to die. You get to bully people a bit. Tell themthat if they don’t play ‘Karma Chameleon’ while loweringyour casket your ghost will haunt their progeny forgenerations.”“I’m just glad you guys were able to be with her in thelast few days,” Sadie says. I smile wistfully. “She was the worst till the very end.She cheated in our last chess game. As if she wouldn’t havebeaten me anyway.” I miss her. An inordinate amount.Helena Harding, my Ph.D. advisor and mentor for the pasteight years, was family in a way my cold, distant bloodrelatives never cared to be. But she was also elderly, in alot of pain, and, as she liked to put it,eager to move on tobigger projects.“It was so lovely of her to leave you her D.C. house,”Hannah says. She must have moved to a better fjord,because I can actually make out her words. “Now you’llhave a place to be, no matter what.”It’s true. It’s all true, and I am immensely grateful.Helena’s gift was as generous as it was unexpected, easilythe kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. But thereading of the will was a week ago, and there’s something Ihaven’t had a chance to tell my friends. Something closelyrelated to houses on fire. “About that . . .”“Uh-oh.” Two sets of brows furrow. “What happened?”“It’s . . . complicated.”“Ilove complicated,” Sadie says. “Is it also dramatic? Letme go get tissues.”“Not sure, yet.” I take a fortifying breath. “The houseHelena left me, as it turns out, she didn’t really . . . own it.”“What?” Sadie aborts the tissue mission to frown at me.“Well, she did own it. But only a little. Only . . . half.”“And who owns theother half?” Trust Hannah to zoom inon the crux of the problem.“Originally, Helena’s brother, who died and left it to hiskids. Then the youngest son bought out the others, and nowhe’s the sole owner. Well, with me.” I clear my throat. “Hisname is Liam. Liam Harding. He’s a lawyer in his earlythirties. And he currently lives in the house. Alone.” Sadie’s eyes widen. “Holy shit. Did Helena know?”“I have no clue. You’d assume, but the Hardings are sucha weird family.” I shrug. “Old money. Lots of it. ThinkVanderbilts. Kennedys. What even goes on in rich people’sbrains?”“Probably monocles,” Hannah says.I nod. “Or topiary gardens.”“Cocaine.”“Polo tournaments.”“Cuff links.”“Hang on,” Sadie interrupts us. “What did LiamVanderbilt Kennedy Harding say about this at the funeral?”“Excellent question, but: he wasn’t there.”“He didn’t show up tohis aunt’s funeral?”“He doesn’t really keep in touch with his family. Lots ofdrama, I suspect.” I tap my chin. “Maybe they’re lessVanderbilts, more Kardashians?”“Are you saying that he doesn’t know that you own theother half of his house?”“Someone gave me his number and I told him I’d becoming around.” I pause before adding, “Via text. Wehaven’t talked yet.” Another pause. “And he didn’t really . .. reply.”“I don’t like this,” Sadie and Hannah say in unison. Anyother time I’d laugh about their hive mind, but there’ssomething else I still haven’t told them. Something they’lllike even less.“Fun fact about Liam Harding . . . You know how Helenawas like, the Oprah of environmental science?” I chew onmy lower lip. “And she always joked that her entire familywas mostly liberal-leaning academics out to save the worldfrom the clutches of big corporations?”“Yeah?” “Her nephew is a corporate lawyer for FGP Corp.” Justsaying the words makes me want to gargle withmouthwash. And floss. My dentist will be thrilled.“FGP Corp—the fossil fuels people?” A deep line appearsin the middle of Sadie’s brow. “Big oil? Supermajors?”“Yep.”“Oh myGod. Does he know you’re an environmentalscientist?”“Well, I did give him my name. And my LinkedIn profileis just a Google search away. Do rich people use LinkedIn,you think?”“No one uses LinkedIn, Mara.” Sadie rubs her temple.“Jesus Christ, this is really bad.”“It’s not that bad.”“You can’t go meet with him alone.”“I’ll be fine.”“He’ll kill you. You’ll kill him. You’ll kill each other.”“I . . . maybe?” I close my eyes and lean back against theseat. I’ve been talking myself out of panicking for seventy-two hours—with mixed results. I can’t crack now. “Believeme, he’s the last person I want to co-own a house with. ButHelena did leave half of it to me, and I kind of need it? Iowe a billion in student loans, and D.C. is crazy expensive.Maybe I can stay there for a bit? Save on rent. It’s a fiscallyresponsible decision, no?”Sadie facepalms just as Hannah says combatively, “Mara,you were a grad student until ten minutes ago. You’rebarely above the poverty line. Donot let him kick you out ofthat house.”“Maybe he won’t even mind! I’m actually very surprisedhe lives there. Don’t get me wrong, the house is nice, but . ..” I trail off, thinking about the pictures I’ve seen, the hoursspent on Google Street View scrolling and rescrolling through the frames, trying to get a grip on the fact thatHelena cared about me enough toleave me a house. It’s abeautiful property, certainly. But more of a familyresidence. Not what I’d expect from an ace lawyer whoprobably earns a European country’s annual GDP perbillable hour. “Don’t high-powered attorneys live in luxuryfifty-ninth-floor penthouses with golden bidets and brandycellars and statues of themselves? For all I know he barelyspends time in the house. So I’m just going to be honestwith him. Explain my situation. I’m sure we can find somekind of solution that—”“Here we are,” the driver tells me with a smile. I returnit, a tad weakly.“If you don’t text us within half an hour,” Hannah says ina dead-serious tone, “I’m going to assume that Big Oil Liamis holding you captive in his basement and call lawenforcement.”“Oh, don’t worry about that. Remember that kickboxingclass I took in our third year? And that time at thestrawberry festival, when I kicked the butt of the guy whotried to steal your pie?”“He was an eight-year-old boy, Mara. And you didnotkick his butt—you gave him your own pie and a kiss on theforehead. Text in thirty, or I’m calling the cops.”I glare at her. “Assuming a polar bear hasn’t mugged youin the meantime.”“Sadie’s in New York, and she has the D.C. police onspeed dial.”“Yup.” Sadie nods. “Setting it up right now.”I start feeling nervous the moment I exit the car, and itgets worse the farther I drag my suitcase up the path—aheavy ball of anxiety slowly nestling behind my sternum. Istop about halfway to take a deep breath. I blame Hannah and Sadie, who worry way too much and are apparentlycontagious. I’ll be fine. This will be fine. Liam Harding andI will have a nice, calm chat and figure out the bestpossible solution that is satisfactory to . . .I take in the early-fall yard around me, and my trail ofthought fades away.It’s a simple house. Large, but no topiary shit or rococogazebos or those creepy gnomes. Just a well-kept lawn withthe occasional landscaped corner, a handful of trees I don’trecognize, and a large wooden patio furnished withcomfortable-looking pieces. In the late-afternoon sunlight,the red bricks give the house a cozy, homey appearance.And every square inch of the place seems dusted in thewarm yellow of ginkgo leaves.I inhale the smell of grass, and bark, and sun, and whenmy lungs are full I let out a soft laugh. I could so easily fallin love with this place. Is it possible that I already am? Myvery first love at first sight?Maybe this is why Helena left the house to me, becauseshe knew I’d form an immediate connection. Or maybeknowing that she wanted me here has me ready to open myheart to it. Either way, it doesn’t matter: this place feelslike it could be home, and Helena is once again being hermeddling self, this time from the afterlife. After all, shealways went on and on about how she wanted me to reallybelong.“You know, Mara, I can tell you’re lonely,” she’d saywhenever I stopped by her office to chat.“How do you evenknow?” “Because people who aren’t lonely don’t writefanfiction for The Bachelorfranchise in their spare time.”“It’s not fanfiction. More of a metacommentary on theepistemological themes that arise in each episode and—myblog has plentyof readers!” “Listen, you’re a brilliantyoung woman. And everyone loves redheads. Why don’t you just date one of the nerds in your cohort? Ideally the onewho doesn’t smell like compost.” “Because they’re all dickswho keep asking when I’ll drop out to go get a degree inhome economics?” “Mmm. That isa good reason.”Maybe Helena finally realized that any hope of mesettling down withsomeone was a lost cause, and decidedto channel her efforts into me settling downsomewhere. Ican almost picture her, cackling like a satisfied hag, and itmakes me miss her a million times harder.Feeling much better, I leave my suitcase just off theporch (no one is going to steal it, not covered as it is ingeeky KEEP CALM AND RECYCLE ON, and GOOD PLANETS ARE HARD TOFIND, and TRUST ME, I’M AN ENVIRONMENTAL ENGINEER stickers). Irun a hand through my long curls, hoping it’s not too messy(it probably is). I remind myself that Liam Harding isunlikely to be a threat—just a rich, spoiled man-boy withthe depth of a surfboard who cannot intimidate me—and liftmy arm to ring the bell. Except that the door swings openbefore I can get to it, and I find myself standing in front of .. .A chest.A broad, well-defined chest under a button-down. And atie. And a dark suit jacket.The chest is attached to other body parts, but it’s sowide that for a moment it’s all I can see. Then I manage toshift my gaze and finally notice the rest: Long, well-muscled legs filling what’s left of the suit. Shoulders andarms stretching for miles. A square jaw and full lips. Shortdark hair, and a pair of eyes barely a shade darker.They are, I realize, fixed on me. Studying me with thesame avid, confused interest I’m experiencing. The manappears to be unable to look away, as if spellbound at some