Page 20 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"Maybe I actually read the books I organize at 2 AM." His smile was softer than his usual smirk. "Or maybe I just like surprising you."

Rain drummed against the windows, casting strange shadows through the stained glass. Jack's glasses caught the light, making his eyes look darker than usual.

"I should go," I said, clutching the books to my chest. "Before it gets worse."

"Sophie." He took off his glasses, and that was somehow worse. "It's pouring. How did you get here?"

"Walked."

"Of course you did." He ran a hand through his hair. "Give me five minutes to close up. I'll give you a ride."

True to his word, Jack had the store closed in five minutes, shelving the last few returns with a speed that suggested he'd done this before. Outside, the rain had turned the street into something out of a Gothic novel.

"Here," he shrugged off his leather jacket. "Can't have the books getting wet."

"The books?"

"Right. Them too." He helped me wrap the books securely, then draped his jacket over my shoulders. It was warm from his body and smelled like old books.

His motorcycle gleamed in the rain, water beading on black chrome. Jack swung on with practiced grace, then held out a helmet.

"Coming, museum girl?"

I should have called a cab. Should have waited out the storm. Should have remembered all the reasons standing in the rain with Jack Morrison was a terrible idea.

Instead, I put on the helmet and climbed behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. His shirt wasalready damp, fabric clinging to muscles that made thinking increasingly difficult.

"Hold tight," he said, and I couldn't tell if he was smirking. The bike roared to life under us, and I tightened my grip instinctively.

The ride was exhilarating and terrifying. The rain stung my face where the helmet didn't cover, but I barely noticed. Jack's body was warm against mine, solid and natural, making my carefully constructed world seem very far away.

We pulled up to my apartment building too soon. Or not soon enough, depending on which part of my frantically racing heart you asked.

"Thanks," I said, reluctantly unwrapping my arms from his waist. "For the books. And the ride."

"Keep the jacket," he said as I started to take it off. "You can return it at our next session."

"Right."

He reached out, brushing a raindrop from my cheek. The touch sent electricity through my skin that had nothing to do with the storm.

"Sophie," he said softly, and my name sounded different in the rain. "I—"

Say something. Move away. Don't just stand here drowning in the way he says your name like it's poetry. Don't think about how easy it would be to—

A car horn blared, making us both jump. The moment shattered like a dropped specimen jar.

"I should go," I said quickly. "Early museum shift tomorrow."

"Right." He kicked his bike back to life. "Wouldn't want to keep the dental tools waiting."

I watched him ride away, his jacket heavy on my shoulders. It wasn't until I got inside that I noticed he'd slipped something into the pocket – a copy of Keats's poetry, with certain passages marked in his familiar handwriting.

The first highlighted line read: "I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for religion – I have shuddered at it. I shudder no more – I could be martyred for my religion – Love is my religion – I could die for that."

Underneath, he'd written: "Some things are worth the risk."

I spent the next hour organizing dental tools, trying to convince myself that the warmth in my chest was just from his jacket.

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