Page 3 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"She hates hockey players," he protested loudly. "She probably has a voodoo doll of me made from old dental floss."

I seriously considered checking my bag to make sure he hadn't seen my collection of Victorian-era dental floss samples.

"I don't care if she has an entire museum of anti-hockey propaganda," Dean Williams replied. "She's the only tutor with both the academic excellence and scheduling flexibility to accommodate your practice schedule."

I was already typing out my reply email, listing every reason why this was a terrible idea. "Dear Dean Williams, While I appreciate the opportunity, I must decline due to:

1) Potential conflict of interest due to previous editorial stance on athletic funding,

2) Possible violent tendencies, as evidenced by a recent dental tool incident,

3) Inability to maintain a professional distance from subjects with literary tattoos and excessive charm..."

I deleted that last point.

"Got a draft of your rejection email already?"

I jumped, nearly knocking my laptop off my lap. Jack had materialized next to my bench, looking like a Greek statue that had decided to become a delinquent. His hair was artfully messed up in a way that probably took more time than my entire morning routine, and he smelled like that cedar cologne that had been haunting my dreams. Not that I'd noticed.

"I'm being thorough," I said, tilting my screen away from him. "Something you might want to try in your essays, according to your academic record."

"You looked up my record?" He dropped onto the bench beside me, way too close for someone who'd recently been hit with historical medical equipment. The leather of his jacket creaked as he leaned back, a sound that definitely shouldn't have been as attractive as it was.

"The dean attached it to the email." I hadn't meant to read it all, but like a train wreck in slow motion, I couldn't lookaway. "Nice work on that essay comparing hockey strategy to military tactics in War and Peace. Shame about all the missed assignments after it."

Wait, he's read War and Peace? And understood it well enough to write a comparative analysis? This does not help my 'he's just a pretty face' narrative.

"Careful, Sophie." My name in his mouth should not sound like that – all low and warm and dangerous. "Almost sounds like you're impressed."

"The only thing I'm impressed by is your ability to maintain that deliberately disheveled look while spending zero time on academics." A lie. I was impressed by lots of things – like how his eyes caught the sunlight, or how his hands... No. Bad Sophie. We do not notice his hands.

"You think about my looks often?" The smirk was back, complete with that dimple that should be illegal in academic settings.

"I think about how much university funding it wastes." Another lie. I mostly thought about how unfair it was that someone could look that good in a simple white t-shirt.

"Is that why you're refusing to tutor me? Protest against athletic spending?"

"I'm refusing to tutor you because—" I started but was interrupted by my phone buzzing. A text from my roommate Dex:

"Heard you're mentoring my brother! Try not to murder him with your dental tools. Mom would be upset."

I stared at my phone in horror. "You're Dex's brother?"

Oh no. No, no, no. This is worse than when I accidentally emailed my entire Victorian medical device wish list to ProfessorWestin instead of my homework. This is worse than when I tripped into the dean during orientation.

"Alexandra Morrison, yeah." He grinned, and for a second, I saw the resemblance—they had the same devastating smile that made you want to either kiss them or push them into a fountain. In Jack's case, it is definitely the fountain option. Probably. Maybe. "Didn't put that together, did you?"

"But... she uses her mom's maiden name. And you're so..."

"Devastatingly handsome? Intellectually intimidating?" Each suggestion came with a slight tilt of his head that made his hair fall across his forehead in a way that belonged to a shampoo commercial.

Yes, to both, actually, but I would rather catalog an entire museum backward than admit that.

"Infuriating," I finished. "She's actually reasonable."

"She collects jewelry made from dead people's hair."

"That's historically significant," I defended, then caught myself. "Stop changing the subject. I'm not tutoring you."

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