Page 29 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"Dad had my whole life planned before I could walk," he finally said. "NHL career, just like him. Never asked if I wanted it. Never noticed I spent more time in the library than the rink."He picked up a surgical manual, handling it with familiar care. "But I was good at hockey, so that's all that mattered."

Oh. That's why he hides his intelligence. That's why he maintains the dumb jock facade. That's why—

"Is that why you maintain the bad boy image? So if you fail, at least it's on your terms?"

His laugh was bitter. "Pretty sure that violates several rules about personal discussions."

"It's after midnight," I said softly. "Different rules apply."

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and something in his expression made my heart race.

"Different rules, huh?" He moved closer, setting down the manual. "Any specific ones I should know about?"

Don't notice how the moonlight catches his cheekbones. Don't think about how intimate this feels, sharing secrets in the dark. Don't imagine what would happen if you just stepped closer—

"I haven't made rules for moonlit museum conversations."

"Seems like an oversight." He was too close now, close enough that I could see the fading bruise from his hockey injury. "Maybe we should make some."

"Like what?"

"Like how to handle it when the scary dental tool girl turns out to be not so scary after all."

"I am too scary," I protested, but my voice was embarrassingly breathless. "I have an entire collection of Victorian bone saws."

"Terrifying," he agreed, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from my face. "Almost as terrifying as admitting this isn't just tutoring anymore."

On the laptop, the Bride of Frankenstein screamed her iconic scream. Neither of us noticed.

"Jack," I whispered, and his name felt different in the dark. "What are we doing?"

"Breaking expectations," he murmured, leaning closer. "Creating chaos. Probably ruining both our carefully maintained reputations."

Say something academic. Quote Victorian medical texts. Do anything except stand here drowning in the way he looks at you like you're a rare first edition he's afraid to touch.

"Good," I said, and I meant it.

His lips were inches from mine when fluorescent lights suddenly flooded the room. We jumped apart like guilty Victorian teenagers caught reading questionable novels.

"Morning, cleaning crew," called a cheerful voice. "Oh! Sorry, didn't know anyone was still—" The janitor stopped, taking in the scene. "Wait, aren't you Jack Morrison? The hockey player?"

"Just helping with exhibit preparation," Jack said smoothly, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. "Very educational."

"At midnight?"

"History never sleeps," I said weakly.

Or apparently, it doesn't require professional boundaries either. What happened to distance? To propriety? To not almost kissing your mentee among nineteenth-century medical displays?

The janitor looked skeptical but shrugged. "Well, I need to clean in here, so..."

We gathered our things in awkward silence. Jack helped me pack up the last few displays, his hands occasionally brushing mine in ways that felt deliberate.

Outside, the night was cool and clear. His motorcycle gleamed under streetlights.

"Need a ride?" he asked, holding out his helmet.

I should have said no. Should have remembered all the reasons this was complicated. Should have maintained professional distance.

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