Page 1 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

Chapter one

The Dental Tools of Destiny

The thing about vintage dental tools is that they make terrible projectile weapons. This wasn’t something I'd ever considered until the exact moment my messenger bag sailed through the air and hit the most infuriatingly attractive human being I'd ever seen squarely in the back of his head.

I should mention that this wasn't happening in some dimly lit alley where one might reasonably expect to be assaulted with antique instruments. This was the pristine quad of Preston University, where I'd been speed-walking after finishing my volunteer shift at the campus museum. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and I was about to commit what could technically be classified as assault with a historical weapon.

My spatial awareness issues are legendary on campus. The museum curator created a special "Sophie-proof" section after I knocked over an entire display trying to take a selfie with a Victorian-era microscope. My best friend Dex keeps threatening to start a blog called "Sophie vs. Gravity: A Daily Chronicle." Themost recent entry would have been yesterday when I managed to trip up the library stairs while carrying exactly one piece of paper. The paper, naturally, floated gracefully to the top step while I sprawled in a distinctly ungraceful heap at the bottom.

So, really, it was only a matter of time before I accidentally assaulted someone. I just wish it hadn't been him. And I wish I hadn't been wearing my "Libraries are Lit" sweater when it happened. Nothing says "take me seriously" quite like accidentally assaulting someone while wearing a nerd pun.

The victim of my ballistic incompetence turned around. I immediately wished the ground would open up and swallow me whole. Until now, I'd only seen Jack Morrison from a safe distance, usually through library windows while pretending to organize books. The distance, it turned out, had been doing me a favor by hiding how devastating he was up close.

He had the kind of face that made Renaissance artists weep – all sharp jawline and perfect cheekbones, softened just enough by perpetually amused eyes to make him seem approachable. Fatal mistake, that – like thinking a tiger is just a big housecat because it's pretty. His dark hair fell across his forehead in that perfectly imperfect way that suggested either hours of careful styling or absolutely none at all. I was betting on the former, which somehow made him even more infuriating.

No one should look that good after being hit in the head with a bag of antiques, I thought indignantly. It's offensive to the natural order of things.

The leather jacket he wore looked expensive but well-worn, creasing at his shoulders in a way that suggested it had seen its share of fights and falls. His white t-shirt underneath (and seriously, who wears white shirts and still looks that good?)stretched across his shoulders, which explained why most of the female campus population had collectively lost their minds over him.

But it was his hands that caught my attention – artist's hands, with long fingers and unexpected calluses, currently running through his hair in a gesture that should have been outlawed for the good of academic focus everywhere. A tattoo peeked out from under his sleeve, something with curling letters that made my literary heart skip a beat before I firmly reminded it that we did not find bad boys with literary tattoos attractive, even if they did have unreasonably perfect forearms.

Jack Morrison, hockey star and campus bad boy, whose exploits were legendary enough to have their own Twitter account. Twitter, sadly, didn't do justice to how his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when he smiled or how he had a small scar above his lip that made him look more like a romance novel hero than a guy who'd probably been in too many fights.

Stop noticing things about him; I mentally scolded myself. He's everything you can't stand – arrogant, disruptive, probably hasn't even read Jane Austen.

The Twitter account, I should mention, currently has more followers than the university's official page. Recent highlights included "Morrison turns library fountain into hockey rink" and "Morrison's motorcycle race through admin building: video footage!" I may or may not have been following the account. For purely academic purposes, of course. In the same way, I purely academically noticed how his jeans fit exactly how expensive jeans should fit on a guy who probably spent more time in the gym than the library.

A small crowd was gathering because nothing attracts college students like the possibility of witnessing either violence or embarrassment. In this case, they were getting both. I could already see phones being pulled out. By tomorrow, this would probably be trending: "Bad Boy Morrison Taken Down by Clumsy Museum Girl."

Keep it together, Sophie, I told myself firmly. You're a serious academic. You write scathing editorials about sports funding. You do not get flustered by pretty boys with questionable regard for library regulations, no matter how good they look in leather jackets.

"Well," he said, rubbing the back of his head with a tattooed forearm, "if you wanted my attention, there are easier ways to get it." His voice was unfairly attractive, too – deep with a hint of gravel, like he'd spent the night before either singing or shouting. Given his reputation, probably both.

His motorcycle was parked nearby because, of course, it was. Everything about him looked like he'd been custom-ordered from a "How to Be a Bad Boy" catalog, right down to the scuff marks on his boots that made them look more expensive. The bike was all sleek lines and barely restrained power, with sparkling black chrome that likely cost more than my whole college degree. It suited him well, which just irritated me more. Don’t look at his mouth, I ordered myself as he spoke. Don't notice how that tiny scar pulls when he smirks. Don't think about how many girls have probably traced that scar with their fingers. Definitely don't wonder what it would feel like to—

"You're Sophie Chen," he interrupted my increasingly dangerous train of thought, eyes scanning my face with unexpected intensity. They weren't just brown, I realized withmounting horror. They had flecks of gold in them, like autumn leaves in sunlight. Who gave this guy permission to have mesmerizing eyes?

"The one who wrote that nasty editorial about how the hockey team is 'a drain on valuable academic resources.'"

I felt my face heat up. The editorial had been published in the campus paper last month after the university announced budget cuts to the library's special collections. I may have gotten a bit carried away with my metaphors comparing hockey players to medieval barbarians. In my defense, I'd just finished a very intense research session about historical warfare.

"And you're Jack Morrison, the reason for that editorial," I said, trying to sound professional despite still being on my knees gathering my scattered belongings. The position put me at eye level with his boots, which had definitely seen some authentic wear. Not the carefully distressed kind that came from a factory, but the kind that came from actually living in them. It was oddly appealing, which was precisely the kind of thought I didn't need to be having.

"You seem well-informed about my life." His smile turned dangerous, the kind of smile that probably launched a thousand bad decisions. I watched that scar above his lip curve and firmly told myself to stop watching his mouth. "Should I be flattered?"

The crowd had grown larger, phones out and recording. Someone in the back shouted, "Kiss!" which made me want to crawl into my messenger bag and never come out. Though the way the sunlight was hitting his cheekbones, highlighting that perfect jaw, I could sort of see where they were getting the idea—

"I work in the library," I snapped, trying to ignore how his leather jacket creaked when he moved closer. The sound didsomething funny to my stomach that I chose to blame on hunger rather than attraction. "It's hard to miss the guy who turned the rare books room into a slip-and-slide."

"That was never proven," he said, but his grin suggested otherwise. A dimple appeared on his left cheek when he smiled like that – a completely unfair addition to his already unreasonable collection of attractive features. His eyes caught mine as he picked up my bag, and for a moment, I forgot about the crowd, the embarrassment, and everything except the way the sunlight turned those gold flecks in his eyes into actual fire.

This is ridiculous, I thought desperately. He's probably one of those people who dog-ear book pages. Or worse, breaks book spines on purpose. Stop noticing his eyes.

"You know," he added, approaching me and causing my heart to race, "you're as uptight as everyone says." His cologne hit me then – something expensive and subtle, with notes of leather and cedar that probably came with a warning label about operating heavy machinery while wearing it.

"And you're exactly as insufferable as your reputation suggests." I grabbed my bag back, ignoring how my fingers tingled when they brushed his. Static electricity, obviously. Nothing to do with the way his eyes seemed to darken at the contact or how his hands were surprisingly warm despite the cool autumn air. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be."

"The library?" He pointed to the building behind him, amusement dancing in those impossible eyes. "That's the hockey rink."

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