Page 34 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"You surprised me tonight," he said quietly, the swing's gentle motion matching the rhythm of distant music.

"By dancing without causing bodily harm?"

"By defending me to Kendra." He turned to look at me, the porch light casting shadows that made his features sharper, more serious. "No one's ever done that before."

"Maybe no one else saw past the leather jacket and motorcycle."

"Maybe no one else was worth showing the rest to."

A crash from inside interrupted whatever might have happened next, followed by cheering and what sounded like Mike attempting to recreate Jack's last playoff goal using a pool cue and someone's textbook. The front door burst open, spilling light and noise onto the porch as Mike stumbled out, grinning broadly despite what would definitely be a bruise tomorrow.

"Cap! Sophie!" He threw his arms wide, nearly taking out a potted plant. "You guys are like... like Romeo and Juliet! But with hockey. And dental stuff."

"I think that's our cue to leave," Jack said, standing and pulling me up with him. "Before he starts comparing our star-crossed love to root canals."

The motorcycle gleamed under the streetlight, its chrome reflecting the party lights in distorted patterns. Jack was already holding out his helmet, the gesture so familiar now it felt like muscle memory.

"What happened to maintaining your reputation?"

"Maybe I'm ready for a new one." He stepped closer, one hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch lingered, warm against the cool night air. "Bad boy who's completely gone for the museum girl."

"That's quite a reputation change." My voice was steadier than my heartbeat. "Sure you can handle it?"

"Sophie." His other hand came up to cup my face, and the world narrowed to just this: the warmth of his touch, the sound of distant music, the way the light caught his eyes. "I've been handling rare books and medical artifacts for weeks. I think I can handle falling for the girl who taught me how."

This time, when he leaned in, there was no janitor to interrupt. No flash of fluorescent lights. Just the distant party music and the feeling of Jack Morrison's lips finally meeting mine.

Someone wolf-whistled from the doorway—probably Mike, documenting what would undoubtedly be tomorrow's top campus gossip. The sound of phone cameras clicking mixed with appreciative cheers and at least one "Finally!" that sounded suspiciously like Dex.

"Still worried about your reputation?" Jack murmured against my lips.

"Honestly?" I smiled, pulling him back down. "I don't care anymore."

The kiss deepened, and somewhere in the background, Mike started a slurred but enthusiastic rendition of what might have been a love song if love songs typically included hockey metaphors and references to dental history. The porch light flickered, casting us in alternating light and shadow, but we were both long past caring about who might see.

Let them see.

Let them talk.

Let them write whatever gossip they wanted.

Because this—the bad guy and the museum girl, the chaos and order, the unexpected narrative none of us could have predicted—was worth any reputation.

And as Jack's motorcycle roared to life minutes later, as I held onto him while we carved through empty streets under starlight, as the night wrapped around us like a promise, I knew we'd made the right choice.

Some stories are worth the scandal.

Some risks are worth taking.

Some reputations are worth changing.

And Jack Morrison was worth all of it.

Chapter twelve

Academic Crisis

The email from Dean Williams arrived at 3 AM, which is never a good time for administrative correspondence. It sat in my inbox like a Victorian medical diagnosis: potentially fatal, definitely uncomfortable, and bound to change everything.

---