Page 69 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

Public Display

There are exactly seven ways to get caught kissing in a museum. I know because we managed to hit every single one in the span of three minutes when Dr. Pierce from the Academic Board walked in on what was supposed to be a "private curatorial consultation" about Victorian medical implements.

It started innocently enough. The new surgical display needed organizing before tomorrow's medical school tour, and Jack had offered to help. Late afternoon sun slanted through the museum's Victorian windows, catching dust motes and making the brass instruments gleam like treasure.

I was actually being professional, explaining proper cataloging procedures, until Jack started demonstrating his knowledge of the collection.

"This bone saw," he said, lifting the instrument with the kind of care that made my curatorial heart race, "you can date it to exactly 1863. See how the handle's been modified?" His fingers traced the alterations with practiced precision. "They changedthe grip angle after Gettysburg when they realized the original design caused surgeon fatigue during extended operations."

The way he cradled the artifact, his fingers moved over historical modifications with genuine understanding, and his voice held real passion for the subject, which was all terribly unfair to my professional demeanor.

"The modifications improved survival rates by thirteen percent," he continued, carefully returning the saw to its velvet backing. His hands were steady, sure, like they were on the ice. "Though they didn't document the change officially until late 1864. Most people overlook this detail, but if you compare it to earlier models—"

I kissed him. Because how could I not? He was speaking my language, handling history with reverence, being utterly himself without pretense or performance. One moment, I was watching him explain surgical modifications; the next, I had my hands in his hair, his surprised laugh warming my lips.

"Sophie," he murmured against my mouth, backing me carefully around the display case that definitely wouldn't survive contact with multiple NCAA championships' worth of hockey muscle. His hands found my waist, gentle despite their strength. "Someone could—"

"Don't care," I breathed, pulling him closer by his shirt. The responsible curator part of my brain noted we were violating at least seven preservation protocols. The rest of my brain was too busy short-circuiting at the way he smiled against my lips. "Too busy being impressed by your surgical tool identification skills."

His laugh vibrated through my chest. "That's definitely the hottest thing anyone's ever said to me." “I never thought I’d end up in a place like this with someone like you.”

"What about when I explained proper humidity control for first editions?"

"God, don't remind me. That was—"

"Ahem."

We froze. Slowly, horrifyingly, we turned to find Dr. Pierce in the doorway, looking like she'd just discovered a particularly fascinating specimen under a microscope. Her eyes tracked from Jack's hands on my waist to my fingers still tangled in his hair to the precariously shifted display case behind us.

"I believe," she said in a voice that could have preserved specimens better than formaldehyde, "this falls outside standard museum protocol."

An artifact cart chose that moment to roll slightly, the wheels squeaking in the silence like a Victorian patient awaiting surgery.

"Dr. Pierce," I started, though I had no idea how that sentence was going to end. My face felt hot enough to damage the humidity-sensitive displays. "We were just—"

"Conducting a private curatorial consultation?" Her eyebrow could have cut a diamond. "Yes, I can see that. Though I don't recall physical contact being part of proper artifact handling procedures."

Jack stepped slightly in front of me, protective even now. "Dr. Pierce, I can explain—"

"The improper proximity to historical artifacts? The violation of museum conduct guidelines? Or perhaps your surprisingly extensive knowledge of Civil War-era surgical modifications?"

That last part had a strange note - almost like a reluctant impression beneath the disapproval. But before either of uscould respond, the sound of multiple phones buzzing filled the air.

The campus gossip network had already begun its work: "HOCKEY CAPTAIN AND TUTOR SCANDAL!" "BAD BOY CAUGHT WITH BOOKWORM!" "MUSEUM MAKEOUT MAYHEM!"

And beneath the sensational headlines, worse messages started appearing: "Athletic Department Calls Emergency Meeting," "Academic Board Reviews Mentorship Program," "Questions Raised About Recent Grade Improvements."

The initial fallout was swift and merciless. Within hours, the carefully constructed balance of our two worlds began to crumble.

"An emergency meeting of the Academic Integrity Board," I read from my phone, pacing Jack's room while he sat on his bed, shoulders tense. "Tomorrow at eight. They've been reviewing all your grades since we started working together."

"Let them." His voice was tight. "I did the work. I earned those grades."

"They're suggesting—" I couldn't finish. The implications in the emails made me sick.

"That you helped me cheat?" Now, there was anger in his tone. "That I couldn't possibly have actually learned anything? That the dumb hockey player must have gotten his good grades through 'inappropriate assistance'?"

Another buzz. This time his phone.

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