Page 4 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"And I'm not being tutored by someone who thinks hockey players are one step above plague-carrying rats." He stood up, looming over me in a way that was probably meant to be intimidating but just gave me a better view of his unfairly perfect jaw. "I'll tell Dean Williams we both refuse."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Neither of us moved. A group of freshmen walking by stopped to watch, probably hoping for another dental tool incident. I could feel my face heating up under his gaze, which had suddenly turned intense in a way that made my stomach do complicated things.

My phone buzzed again. Dean Williams, this time: "Your first session is scheduled for 7 PM tonight in Study Room 204. No excuses from either of you. And Ms. Chen? Please leave your dental tools at home."

Jack read the text over my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck. That should not affect my heart rate like this. It's just breathing. Everyone breathes. His breathing just happens to smell like expensive coffee.

"Guess we're stuck with each other," he said, and his voice had dropped into that lower register that made my brain short-circuit.

"I'm making rules," I said quickly, trying to ignore the way my skin tingled where his breath had touched it. "So many rules."

"I break rules," he reminded me, stepping back with that infuriating smirk. "It's kind of my thing."

"We'll see about that." I was already mentally drafting a rulebook that would make Victorian etiquette guides look relaxed. "Seven PM sharp."

"Can't wait," he said in a tone that suggested he very much could wait. He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Sophie? I'll try not to be too distracting. Wouldn't want your dental tools getting jealous."

Too late for that, I thought, watching him walk away. His motorcycle was parked at the curb, and he swung onto it with that same fluid grace that had featured in several dreams I was not admitting to having.

Several students swooned as he passed. I made a mental note to add a rule about unnecessary displays of motorcycle prowess during academic hours.

At 7:15 PM, the door to Study Room 204 burst open. I'd spent the intervening hours creating the most comprehensive tutoringrulebook in academic history and not checking the hockey team's Instagram for recent practice photos. For research purposes. Obviously.

Jack stood there, motorcycle helmet under one arm, looking like he'd just stepped out of a photo shoot for "Bad Boys Weekly: Academic Edition." His hair was slightly damp, probably from practice, and his white Henley had no business fitting like that.

"You're late," I said, not looking up from my meticulously prepared study schedule. Color-coded. With timestamps.

"Practice ran long." He dropped into the chair across from me, his leather jacket creaking. "Nice cardigan. Very sexy librarian."

A jolt of electricity shot through my stomach. No. Absolutely not. We are not doing the sexy librarian thing. Even if this cardigan does bring out my eyes—stop it!

"Rule number one," I said loudly, pushing a laminated sheet across the table. "No comments about anyone's clothing."

He picked up the sheet, eyebrows rising as he read. "Rule 17: No unnecessary smirking. How exactly do you define unnecessary?"

"If you have to ask, it's unnecessary." Like the way you're smirking right now, which is doing dangerous things to my blood pressure.

"Rule 23: Maintain a minimum distance of three feet except in cases of academic emergency." His smirk violated Rule 17. "What exactly constitutes an academic emergency?"

"Focus," I said, tapping the syllabus I'd prepared. "We're starting with Victorian literature."

"My favorite," he said, pulling out his copy of "Wuthering Heights." It was dog-eared, annotated, and looked read. I triednot to let that impress me. Or notice how his hands—strong but surprisingly elegant—handled the pages with unexpected care.

Stop watching his hands. So what if he knows how to properly hold a book? So what if his marginalia show actual insight? So what if—is that a quote from Emily Brontë on his wrist?

"You did the reading?"

"Don't sound so surprised." He leaned back in his chair, which should not have looked like a GQ pose but somehow did. "I contain multitudes."

"Rule 42," I said quickly before my traitor brain could dwell on exactly what multitudes he might contain. "No literary quotes used in a flirtatious manner."

"You have a rule for everything, don't you?"

"I'm adding one about obvious observations right now." And maybe one about the prohibited use of reading glasses because he'd just pulled out a pair that made him look like a model moonlighting as a graduate student.

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