Page 19 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

He disappeared back into the stacks, whistling what sounded suspiciously like a Victorian parlor song.

We gathered our things in awkward silence. Every book we picked up, every note we collected, felt charged with the memory of what had almost happened. Jack's essay draft had landed near a shelf of romantic poetry, which felt like the universe's idea of a joke.

At the library steps, Jack paused. "Sophie—"

"Rule 335," I said quickly. "No personal discussions."

"Right." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Wouldn't want to break any more rules."

He walked away, hands in his pockets, moonlight catching his tattoos one last time.

And I was left standing there, wondering why following the rules suddenly felt like the biggest mistake I could make.

I spent the next hour walking around campus, trying to clear my head. But all I could think about was the way Paradise Lost looked inked on his skin, how his voice sounded when saying my name in the dark, and how those glasses made him look both softer and more dangerous at the same time.

Maybe some rules weren't meant to be followed.

Maybe some moments were worth the risk.

Maybe it was time to write a new rulebook entirely.

Starting with: Sometimes the right thing and the safe thing aren't the same at all.

Chapter eight

Bookstore Blues

Rare book research after midnight is probably not the wisest academic choice. Yet here I was, standing outside Preston's oldest bookstore at 8:57 PM on a Friday, trying to convince myself this was purely about my desperate need for an 1856 medical text.

The bells chimed softly as I entered Blackwood's Books, the smell of old paper and leather bindings hitting me like a fever dream. Jack was behind the counter, wearing those reading glasses and frowning at a ledger like it had personally offended him.

"We're closing in—" he looked up, and something flickered across his face. "Oh. Let me guess. Purely academic visit?"

"I need the Thompson Guide to Victorian Medical Practices." I gripped my laptop bag tighter, trying not to notice how the dim lighting made his eyes look darker behind those glasses. "For research."

"At nine PM on a Friday?"

"Science doesn't sleep."

And apparently, neither does my ability to make up increasingly ridiculous excuses to see you.

"Right." He closed the ledger but didn't take off his glasses. The combination of tattoos and scholarly eyewear was doing things to my heart rate. "Follow me."

He led me through the maze of shelves, navigating the cramped aisles with familiar ease. His leather jacket brushed against vintage spines, and I tried not to think about the last time we'd been alone among old books.

"Should be here somewhere," he muttered, scanning the medical section. "Unless someone else needed Victorian medical practices at nine PM on a Friday."

"Are you implying my research schedule is unusual?"

"I'm implying," he pulled a book from the shelf, hand brushing mine as he passed it over, "that some people might have ulterior motives for visiting bookstores after hours."

Like making up excuses to see someone who handles rare books like they're precious? Who remembers exactly how you organize your research materials? Who looks unfairly attractive in reading glasses and probably knows it?

Thunder cracked outside, making me jump. "Is it raining?"

"Started a few minutes ago." He reached past me to grab another book, his arm practically pinning me to the shelves. "Here's the companion volume. They're usually referenced together."

"How do you know that?"

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