Page 48 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

Before I could respond, the lights flickered ominously. Thunder cracked outside, and suddenly, we were plunged into darkness.

Perfect. Just perfect. Trapped in the dark (again) with Jack Morrison and several hundred years of medical implements. This is definitely not how Victorian horror novels start.

"Power's out in the whole building," Jack said, his phone's flashlight casting strange shadows across antique displays. "Storm must have hit the main line. These old buildings have terrible electrical infrastructure."

"The trustees will be here in an hour!" Panic clawed at my throat. "We need lights, climate control, basic electrical function—these artifacts require specific environmental conditions. The humidity alone could—"

"Hey." His hand found my shoulder in the dark, steady and warm. "Breathe. We'll figure it out. The backup generator should—"

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't be..."Kind. Caring. Real."We need to focus on the problem."

His hand dropped. "Right. Professional distance."

The backup generator hummed weakly to life, casting everything in dim emergency lighting. Jack looked otherworldly in the strange illumination, all sharp edges and shadows,nothing like the boy who used to read poetry by museum display lights.

"The electrical panel's in the basement," he said, already moving toward the stairs. "I can check the circuits and see if we can reroute power from the secondary systems to maintain climate control. The artifacts have to be the priority."

"How do you know about the electrical panel?"

His smile was sad. "Contrary to popular belief, I did pay attention when you talked about museum infrastructure. Even if you think it was just part of the act."

Oh.

The basement was something out of a Gothic novel – all exposed pipes and ancient stonework, illuminated only by our phone lights. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, and the storm's fury was muffled but constant above us. The air was thick with the kind of dampness that made museum curators have nightmares about artifact degradation.

"Here." Jack found the panel, his hands moving confidently over switches. "Main power's cut, but we can reroute through the secondary system. The problem is, we don't have enough juice to run everything. We'll have to prioritize."

I stared at him. "Since when do you know about electrical systems?"

"Since I spent a summer helping my uncle's maintenance company." He didn't look up from the panel. "He specializes in historic buildings. The wiring in these old places is like a time capsule of electrical evolution. But I guess that doesn't fit the narrative of the fake intellectual bad boy, does it?"

"Jack—"

"No, you're right." His voice was carefully neutral as he worked. "Professional distance. No personal discussions. Just get through tonight."

"We need climate control for the artifacts," I said, focusing on practicalities. "And enough light for the displays, but not so much it causes deterioration."

"We can redirect power from the offices and storage areas," he suggested. "Run everything through the main exhibition space. It won't be perfect, but it should maintain basic preservation standards."

The way he casually threw out museum terminology made my chest hurt.

He worked quickly, rewiring connections with surprising skill. "Hand me that voltage meter? Should be in the maintenance kit on the shelf."

I reached for it at the same time he turned, bringing us face to face in the dim light. We were too close for a moment, sharing breath in the basement's musty air. His eyes caught mine, and something electric that had nothing to do with the power crisis passed between us.

"Sophie—"

A crash of thunder made us both jump. The emergency lights flickered ominously.

"We should hurry," I said, stepping back. "The trustees—"

"Will be here soon. Yeah." He took the voltage meter, our fingers brushing. "Professional distance."

The lights above us hummed to life, weak but steady. Jack's face was illuminated in the soft glow, and for a moment, he looked younger, more vulnerable, like the boy I'd glimpsed in quiet moments between acts.

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