Page 11 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

But as we rode through the night, my arms around his waist and his warmth seeping through my cardigan, I had a sinking feeling that some rules were meant to be broken.

And Jack Morrison was exactly the kind of rule-breaker who could shatter every carefully constructed wall I'd built.

Just remember, I told myself as we curved around another corner, his body moving perfectly in sync with the bike, that he was still the campus bad boy. Still the guy who breaks hearts. Still the guy who...

But I couldn't finish the thought. Because the truth was, I wasn't sure who Jack Morrison was anymore. And that was the most terrifying part of all.

Chapter five

Museum Incident

The thing about Victorian medical displays is that they're surprisingly fragile for items originally designed to cut through bone. This becomes especially relevant when a group of hockey players decides to play hall sports with a nineteenth-century surgical kit.

I was cataloging the collection in the back room of Preston University's medical history museum when I heard the crash. It was the distinctive sound of history meeting hockey – a sound that, until this moment, I hadn't known I was terrified of hearing.

"Dude, Coach is going to kill us."

"Forget Coach – that scary dental girl is going to murder us with ancient tools."

Scary dental girl? Is that what they call me? Well, they're about to find out just how scary I can be.

I rounded the corner to find a scene that would have made my dental tools weep if they weren't currently safe in their humidity-controlled display cases. The Victorian medical practices exhibit – my exhibit, the one I'd spent three months curating – was in pieces. Standing in the middle of the carnage was Jack Morrison and half of Preston's hockey team, looking like children who'd broken their mother's favorite vase if the vase was an irreplaceable piece of medical history.

Don't notice how his practice jersey clings to his shoulders. Don't think about how he looks all flushed from whatever idiotic game they were playing. Focus on the DESTRUCTION OF HISTORY.

"What," I said in a voice that made several players actually step behind Jack, "did you do?"

"Sophie," Jack started, using my first name like it might defuse the bomb I'd become. "We can explain—"

"Explain?" My voice hit a pitch that probably hadn't been heard since Victorian hysteria was a recognized medical condition. "Explain how you turned priceless medical artifacts into a game of hallway hockey?"

"Actually," one of the players piped up, "we were playing indoor soccer—"

"Not helping, Mike," Jack cut him off.

I surveyed the damage, and my heart rate climbed with each new discovery. A displaced surgical kit from 1856. A toppled display of early anesthesia devices. And in the center of it all, my prized collection of dental tools, their careful organizational system now looking like a game of 52 pickup played with historical artifacts.

"Do you," I asked, picking up a bent dental probe that had survived two centuries only to meet Preston's hockey team, "have any idea what you've done?"

"We'll fix it," Jack said quickly. "Right, guys?"

The team nodded vigorously, except for one who looked like he might faint at the sight of the Victorian bone saw.

"You'll fix it?" I laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "These artifacts survived the Civil War, but fifteen minutes with Preston's hockey team—"

"It was my fault," Jack interrupted. "I'm team captain. I take full responsibility."

"Jack—" one of his teammates started.

"All of you, out," Jack ordered. "I'll handle this."

They fled like Victorian patients escaping a dentist's office, leaving me alone with Jack and two centuries of disrupted medical history.

"If you think you can charm your way out of this—"

"I don't." He was already carefully picking up pieces of the display. "But I can help fix it. Just tell me what to do."

Something in his voice made me pause. He looked genuinely contrite, which was an expression I hadn't known his face could make.

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