Page 2 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

I turned to look at the building I'd been speed-walking toward, and sure enough, there was our school's mascot—a deeplyconfused-looking penguin wearing ice skates—painted on the wall. The actual library, I realized with dawning horror, was on the complete opposite side of campus. The crowd's whispers turned to poorly concealed laughter.

Perfect. Just perfect. Not only have I assaulted the most attractive man on campus, but I've also lost all sense of direction. Next, I'll probably start reciting Shakespeare just to complete my transformation into a walking romantic comedy cliché.

"Want to come watch practice?" he asked, that infuriating smirk back on his face. He shifted his weight, a casual movement that made his entire body look like a cologne advertisement. "You might learn that there's more to hockey players than what you read in your precious books."

The invitation hung between us, charged with something that felt dangerous. The rational part of my brain was screaming about deadlines and responsibilities and the fact that I knew nothing about hockey except that it involved ice and the occasional loss of teeth. The utterly irrational part was how his t-shirt pulled across his chest when he moved and how his fingers wrapped around his motorcycle keys with a kind of casual grace that made me forget basic math.

The crowd was watching us like a tennis match, heads swiveling back and forth. I could practically see the gossip spreading across campus already: Sophie Chen, uptight museum volunteer and defender of library budgets, facing off against Jack Morrison, hockey god and professional troublemaker. The contrast couldn't have been more stark – him in his perfectly worn leather jacket and artfully messy hair, me in my sensible sweater and practical shoes.

I should have said no. I should have remembered my study group, my paper due tomorrow, and my complete ignorance of anything sports-related. Should have recalled all the times I'd seen him roaring through campus on that motorcycle, breaking rules and probably hearts with equal abandon.

Instead, I found myself nodding, my mouth operating independently of my better judgment. "Fine. But only because I need material for my next editorial about wasted university resources."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Sophie," he said, and the way he said my name should have been illegal. His voice wrapped around those two syllables like they were something precious and dangerous at the same time, like he was already planning to use them to ruin my life, one perfectly timed smirk at a time.

He swung onto his motorcycle with a casual grace that made several onlookers sigh dreamily. The movement pulled his shirt up slightly, revealing a strip of skin and another hint of a tattoo that I hadn’t noticed. His jeans settled against the bike's leather seat in a way that suggested this was a familiar position, and I firmly told myself to stop noticing anything about how he fit on that motorcycle.

"Coming?" he asked, holding out his helmet. Like his bike, the helmet was matte black and probably cost more than my entire book collection. His fingers brushed mine as he handed it over, and I pretended not to notice how my skin tingled at the contact. "Unless you're scared."

"Of your riding or your hockey?" I challenged, even as I took the helmet. It smelled like expensive leather and bad decisions,with a hint of that cedar cologne that was going to haunt my dreams.

"Both," he winked and revved the engine. The sound rumbled through the quad like distant thunder, a perfect soundtrack to what was undoubtedly about to be a massive mistake. Show-off.

As I climbed onto the back of his motorcycle (trying very hard to maintain some semblance of personal space, which was pretty much impossible on a motorcycle), I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just made a terrible mistake. Not the kind of mistake that comes from accidental assault—I was well-versed in that kind of mistake. No, this was the kind of mistake that started with a leather-clad bad boy's smirk and ended with me doing something ridiculous like learning sports terminology or, worse, developing feelings.

Just remember, I told myself as I gingerly placed my hands on his waist, he probably leaves cups without coasters. He probably hasn't read Jane Eyre. He probably—oh wow, he's really warm.

My roommate Dex always says that romance finds you when you least expect it. I'm pretty sure she didn't mean it would find me through borderline assault. But, then again, she also collects Victorian mourning jewelry, so who is she to judge?

The crowd watched as we roared off toward the hockey rink, and I could have sworn I heard someone say, "Best meet-cute ever." His back was solid against my chest, and his leather jacket was cool under my hands but warming quickly. The bike thrummed between our legs like a mechanical heartbeat.

It wasn't a meet-cute. It was assault. And if my heart was racing, it was definitely from the motorcycle's speed, not the way Jack's leather jacket felt under my reluctantly gripping hands, orhow he'd glanced back at me with those impossible eyes before taking off, or how his body seemed to fit perfectly against mine as we leaned into the first turn.

I had a feeling this was going to be a very long semester.

And I was going to need to update my collection of anti-Jack Morrison editorials to include something about the unfair advantages of perfect cheekbones in academic settings.

Chapter two

Mandatory Mentoring

There are exactly three times in my life when I've seriously considered selling my dental tool collection: once when a museum in Boston offered me enough money to pay for grad school, once when my neighbor's kid used my 1856 tooth key as a sandbox toy, and now, staring at the email from Dean Williams that would surely end my academic career.

"Dear Ms. Chen," the email began, with all the warmth of a Victorian-era bone saw. "Due to your exemplary academic record and demonstrated leadership abilities, you have been selected to participate in our Student Academic Mentorship Program."

So far, not terrible. I'd mentored before. Usually quiet, studious types who wanted to learn about Victorian literature or needed help with museum cataloging. The following line, however, made me wish I'd kept that Boston museum's number.

"Your assigned mentee is John 'Jack' Morrison (Student ID: 847562), who requires academic support to maintain athletic eligibility."

I stared at my laptop screen for so long that my eyes started to burn. Of all the students at Preston University, they had to assign me the one who'd starred in my most confusing dreams since our motorcycle incident last week. Not that I'd been dreaming about him. Much.

This is fine, I told myself, even as my heart did a completely unauthorized backflip. Just because he has unfairly perfect cheekbones and probably smells like that cedar cologne doesn't mean—

"ABSOLUTELY NOT," came a loud voice from the administration building, interrupting my spiral. The shout was loud enough to be heard across the quad, where I sat on a bench. I looked up to see Jack Morrison storming out of the building, his leather jacket somehow managing to look angry. Behind him, Dean Williams stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

"This is not a request, Mr. Morrison," she called after him. "Either you accept Ms. Chen as your mentor, or you'll be ineligible for the playoff games."

Jack spun around, and even from a distance, I could see the tension in his shoulders. The movement made his t-shirt pull across his chest in a way that was entirely unnecessary for academic purposes.

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