Page 16 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

I knew about the dyslexia.

Knew about the late-night studying.

Knew that sometimes reputations were just convenient masks for the things we didn't want others to see.

My phone buzzed again. This time, a photo: a carefully annotated page of "Wuthering Heights," with a sticky note that read, "Some characters are worth a second look."

I smiled and replied: "Some people too."

The next day, a new Twitter account appeared: "Jack Morrison's Literary Hot Takes." The first post was a surprisinglyinsightful analysis of social mobility in Victorian literature, complete with color-coded citations.

The campus couldn't decide which was more shocking: that Jack Morrison had secret literary opinions or that those opinions were actually good.

Two days later, the football team took credit for the fountain incident, but hardly anyone noticed. They were too busy discussing Jack's thread about parallel themes in Gothic literature and modern sports narratives.

And if anyone noticed that the campus bad boy now spent his Saturday nights organizing books instead of breaking rules, well, some reputations were worth changing.

Some stories were worth rewriting.

And some people were worth the effort of a second look.

Even if they came with leather jackets and literary annotations.

Even if they broke rules and quoted Keats.

Even if they made you question everything you thought you knew about them.

I saved his number under "Victorian Literature Consultant.”

He saved mine under "Dental Tool Wielding Literary Critic."

Sometimes, the best stories are the ones that don't fit the narrative.

The bookstore became our unofficial meeting spot. Late nights among the classics, coffee cups balanced precariously on stacks of first editions, discussions that wandered from Victorian literature to hockey strategies to the proper way to organize medical texts.

And if anyone thought it was strange to see the hockey captain and the museum girl debating literature at 2 AM... well, some reputations were better off broken.

Chapter seven

Late Night Study

There are exactly twenty-six rules about after-hours tutoring sessions, including specific guidelines about proper lighting (Rule 445), minimum distance requirements (Rule 447), and emergency protocols (Rule 452). None of them, however, covered what to do when a power outage traps you in the library's rare book room with a guy who's recently revealed he's not quite as bad as advertised.

Preston University's library at night was a different world entirely. The massive Gothic windows cast checkered moonlight across centuries-old wooden tables, their surfaces scarred by generations of desperate studying. The rare books room occupied the top floor of the west wing, a cathedral-like space with vaulted ceilings and reading nooks tucked between towering oak shelves. By day, it was impressive. By night, it was almost magical.

We'd been studying for hours, surrounded by stacks of Victorian literature and the faint scent of aging leather bindings.Jack had been making actual progress on his analysis of social mobility in "Great Expectations," his notes surprisingly thorough despite his earlier complaints about Dickens being "unnecessarily verbose."

"This is your fault," I said, watching Jack fiddle with the electric door lock after the power cut out. His phone's flashlight cast dramatic shadows across the ceiling's carved wooden beams. "If you hadn't insisted on checking that first edition—"

"Pretty sure you're the one who said, and I quote, 'Just five more minutes to compare these publication dates.'" His smirk was visible even in the dim light. "Face it, Sophie. Your book addiction is just as bad as mine."

"I do not have an addiction. I have an academic interest in—" The lights flickered once, hopefully, then died completely. "Perfect."

"Could be worse," Jack said, settling onto the floor near the window. Moonlight caught his profile, and I tried very hard not to notice how it traced the edge of his jaw. The antique Persian rug beneath him had probably witnessed centuries of similar late-night study sessions, though probably none quite like this. "Could be trapped in here with someone who doesn't know the entire history of Victorian dentistry."

"Are you mocking my interests?"

"Never." He patted the floor beside him, where a patch of moonlight illuminated an elaborate pattern of woven roses on the carpet. A leather-bound copy of "Great Expectations" lay open beside him, its pages marked with sticky notes in at least three different colors.

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