Page 12 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"First," I said, still angry but now in organizing mode, "we need to check for damage. Each piece needs to be cataloged and—"

"Documented for restoration," he finished. At my surprised look, he shrugged. "I do actually listen when you talk about preservation techniques."

He listens to me? No, focus. He probably has a good memory. This isn't helping because now I'm thinking about how he remembers things and how he looks when he's concentrating, and— ARTIFACTS, SOPHIE. FOCUS ON THE ARTIFACTS.

We worked in tense silence, cataloging each piece. Jack handled the artifacts with surprising care, his hands – which I'd seen throw punches and score goals – gentle with the delicate instruments.

"This is fascinating," he said after a while, examining a nineteenth-century amputation kit. "The development of surgical techniques during the Civil War revolutionized modern medicine."

I nearly dropped the dental forceps I was holding. "How do you know that?"

Please don't be secretly intelligent about medical history. I cannot handle you being both hot AND historically knowledgeable. There have to be limits.

"Contrary to popular belief, some of us can read." He carefully placed the kit in its display. "Besides, your blog post about Civil War medical innovations was interesting."

"You read my blog?"

He reads my blog? The pretentious academic blog where I rant about historical accuracy and proper preservation techniques? The one even my mother doesn't read?

"Rule 335," he reminded me with a ghost of his usual smirk. "No personal discussions."

We were working closer now, shoulders almost touching as we reassembled a display of early surgical tools. I could smell his cologne – something expensive that violated Rule 443 about distracting scents in academic settings.

"That goes there," I said, reaching for a bone saw at the same time he did. Our hands touched, and I jerked back like I'd been shocked.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Didn't realize handling medical history was so... electrifying."

"Rule 552," I muttered. "No inappropriate innuendos during academic activities."

Even if they're clever. Even if they make your stomach do that stupid flippy thing. Even if he's looking at you with those impossible eyes.

"Is this academic?" He was standing very close now, helping me straighten a particularly delicate display. "Seems more like detention."

"This is serious, Jack." But my anger had faded to something more complicated. "These artifacts matter."

"I know." He was quiet for a moment. "That's why I sent the team away. They wouldn't have understood how to handle this properly."

I looked at him – really looked at him. His practice jersey was rumpled, hair messy from running his hands through it, but his expression was focused, careful. The class clown was gone, replaced by someone who handled historical artifacts with unexpected reverence.

"Why did you come to the museum today?" I asked before I could stop myself.

He was silent for so long that I thought he wouldn't answer. "The team's been stressed about the playoffs. I thought, I don't know, but I thought they might find the history interesting. Like I do." He ran a hand through his hair. "Stupid idea, obviously."

Like I do. LIKE I DO? Since when does Jack Morrison find medical history interesting? This has to be another charm offensive. It has to be. Because if it's real...

"It wasn't stupid," I said softly. "Just... poorly executed."

"Story of my life." But he was almost smiling now. "Need help with that dental kit?"

We worked for another hour, carefully restoring each display. Jack revealed an almost encyclopedic knowledge of Civil War history that he tried to play off as "just something I picked up." By the time we finished, the exhibits looked better than before.

"Thanks," I said, watching him adjust the last display case. "For staying. For helping."

"Thanks for not murdering me with nineteenth-century medical instruments." He paused at the door. "Though I probably deserved it."

"There's still time."

He laughed – a real laugh, not his usual calculated one. "See you at tutoring?"

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