Page 31 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"And I'm chaos on a motorcycle." His thumb traced patterns on my palm. "But you know what? I think you like that more than you're willing to admit."

He's right. God help me, he's right. I like the way he disrupts my careful systems. The way he makes me question my categories. The way he—

"You organize books by theme and historical context," I said suddenly. "Your coffee order is more complex than most Victorian medical procedures. You color-code your study notes."

"Your point?"

"Maybe you're not as chaotic as you pretend to be." I looked at our joined hands. "Maybe I'm not as ordered as I pretend to be."

He laughed softly. "Look at us, disrupting our own stereotypes."

"Terrible for our reputations."

"Absolutely scandalous."

A moment passed, filled with the sound of distant traffic and possibilities.

"Stay," I said suddenly. "Not for... I mean, just... The museum opening is tomorrow. I have a whole section on Victorian medical innovations that needs reviewing."

Smooth, Sophie. Very smooth. Nothing says 'I might be falling for you' like Victorian medical history.

But Jack's smile was worth every awkward word.

"Only if you let me add my thoughts on the parallel development of sports medicine."

"Deal."

And somehow, that's how Jack Morrison ended up on my couch at 2 AM, glasses perched on his nose, arguing passionately about the evolution of athletic rehabilitation while I pretended not to notice how right he looked there.

Like a missing piece of my carefully organized world.

Like chaos finding its own kind of order.

Like something I didn't want to live without.

The morning would bring complications. Questions. Consequences.

But for now, there was just this: moonlight and medical history and the sound of Jack's voice making the past come alive in ways my textbooks never could.

And for once, I didn't need to categorize it, just live it.

Chapter eleven

Party Crash

The hockey house loomed at the end of fraternity row, a Victorian mansion with peeling paint and questionable structural integrity. Music pulsed through its ancient windows, and clusters of students spilled onto the wraparound porch, their laughter mixing with the bass line that seemed to make the whole building shake.

"You're here!" Dex yanked me inside before I could retreat, past a group of hockey players engaged in what appeared to be a complex drinking game involving their playoff rings. "I thought I'd have to forge a dental emergency to get you to come."

"I'm only here because—"

"Because the museum's closed for renovations, and you need a distraction from your paper on Victorian medical practices?" She grinned, steering me through the crowd. The living room had been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, with the team's trophies lining the mantelpiece above a fireplace that probably hadn't worked since the last century. "Or because a certain hockey captain mentioned he'd be here?"

"Because you threatened to reorganize my dental tool collection if I didn't come."

The official excuse for the party was to celebrate Jack’s quick recovery, but this was mostly just an excuse to drink. The partygoers were a mix of athletes, theater kids, and what looked like the entire chemistry department. Someone had strung Christmas lights across the ceiling, casting everything in a soft glow that almost made the beat-up furniture look intentionally vintage rather than just old.

Jack held court by the grand staircase, surrounded by the usual mix of admirers and teammates. He wore dark jeans and a black Henley that made him look like he'd stepped out of one of those cologne ads that always seemed to feature motorcycles for no apparent reason. But something was off – his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, and his responses to the giggling sorority girls around him seemed automatic.

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