Page 33 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

The music wrapped around us, something slow and intimate that made the crowded room feel suddenly private. Jack's hands were warm on my waist, steady and sure as he guided me through the steps. The Christmas lights cast shifting patterns across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the slight smile that was nothing like his usual smirk.

"Thank you," he said softly, his voice barely audible above the music. "For what you said to Kendra."

"I only stated facts. Very academic of me."

"Sophie." His voice was rough. "You're the only person who's ever seen... who didn't just accept the reputation."

"Maybe you're the only person worth looking past it for."

Did I really just say that out loud? In public? Where people can hear me admitting that Jack Morrison is more than his reputation? Where people can see how my hands are trembling on his shoulders? Where everyone can witness me falling for—no, stop that thought right there.

The crowd around us had thinned slightly, but those who remained were watching with undisguised interest. Whispered fragments floated past:"

“Jack Morrison and the museum girl?"

"Did you see how he looked at her?"

"Never seen him like this..."

"They're talking about us," I murmured.

"Let them." His hands tightened slightly, drawing me closer. The scent of his cologne mixed with leather and familiar old books, a combination that was becoming dangerously familiar. "Unless you're worried about your reputation?"

Yes. No. Maybe. Not for the reasons I should be. I thought about my carefully organized life, my neat boxes, and predictable patterns. Then I thought about moonlit confessions in museums and motorcycle rides in the rain.

"Maybe some reputations need shaking up."

He laughed, spinning me in a way that violated several laws of physics. The movement sent Christmas lights spinning, turning the room into a kaleidoscope of color and shadow. "SophieChen, embracing chaos? What's next, impromptu dental tool demonstrations?"

"I'm keeping some standards." But I was laughing, too, letting him pull me closer as the music changed. The new song was slower and more intimate, and Jack's hand slid to the small of my back, keeping me close when other guys tried to cut in.

We danced for what felt like hours. Jack effortlessly steered us away from Kendra's subsequent attempts at drama, shot down advances from other girls with increasing firmness, and somehow made me forget I was supposed to be terrible at this. The party moved around us like water around stones; for once, I didn't mind being the center of attention.

"You're staring," I said during a slow song. The crowd had thinned enough that we could move without colliding with other couples. However, plenty of people were still watching.

"You're beautiful." He said it simply, like it was just another fact about Victorian medical practices.

"That's not very bad boy of you."

"You make me want to break character."

The way he looked at me at that moment made the rest of the party fade away. The music softened to background noise, the Christmas lights blurred into a soft glow, and even the persistent whispers of onlookers seemed distant and unimportant.

Later, as the party grew louder and the air inside became too thick with heat and music, we escaped to the front porch. The swing creaked under our weight as we sat, and the cool night air was a relief after the crowded rooms. Jack's teammates occasionally passed by, offering knowing grins and exaggerated winks, which he waved off with practiced ease.

"Do you regret coming?" he asked, his thumb tracing patterns on my palm where our hands had somehow become entwined.

The night air carried fragments of party noise: laughter, music, and the occasional cheer from what sounded like an impromptu hockey demonstration in the backyard. Above us, stars competed with streetlights, and somewhere down the street, a car alarm briefly serenaded the night before falling silent.

"No," I said honestly. "Some things are worth getting a little messy for."

"Even bad boys who disrupt your carefully organized world?"

"Especially them." I leaned my head on his shoulder, watching a moth dance around the porch light. "Though I'm keeping my dental tool organization system."

"Wouldn't dream of asking you to change that." His fingers interlaced with mine. "I like how you color-code history."

The night air was cool, the porch swing creaked, and somewhere inside, someone was butchering a karaoke version of "Sweet Caroline." A group of freshmen stumbled past, doing a double-take at seeing Jack Morrison, notorious campus bad boy, sitting contentedly on a porch swing with the museum girl.

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