Page 32 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

Then he looked up and saw me.

The change was immediate and electric. His whole face transformed, the practiced smirk giving way to something real and warm. He moved through the crowd with fluid grace, leaving a wake of whispers and stares.

"Sophie?" He reached us, ignoring the several people who tried to intercept him. "You hate parties."

"I'm expanding my horizons." I gestured vaguely at the room. "Studying social dynamics. Very academic."

Not because I've been thinking about you since that night in the museum. Not because I wanted to see what you're like in your element. Definitely not because I missed you.

The moment shattered as Kendra materialized beside Jack, all perfect hair and calculated grace. She wore her beauty like armor, and her smile had edges sharp enough to cut.

Her dress probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and she moved with the kind of confidence that came from never having tripped over your own feet in public.

"Jackie," she purred, placing a manicured hand on his arm. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

"Kendra," he said flatly, stepping away from her touch. "You know who Sophie is."

Is she really pretending that we didn’t just speak the other day?

"The tutor," Kendra said, making it sound like a disease. She turned to her perfectly curated audience. "Remember when he went through that artistic phase with Sarah? Or that intellectual streak with Emma?" Her laugh tinkled like broken glass. "Jack just loves playing different roles. Currently, it's reformed bad boy discovering literature."

She lifted her phone, scrolling through something. "Look, I have his whole evolution documented. The musician phase lasted three months. The poet phase? Six weeks. The serious athlete focusing on his future? Almost a full semester, that was impressive." She glanced at me. "Wonder how long the scholarly phase will last?"

Don't react. Don't show that it bothers you. Don't think about how many others there might have been before you; all of them are probably gorgeous and socially graceful, and definitely not the kind of girls who spend Friday nights cataloging medical artifacts.

"Still trying to make 'Jackie' happen?" I asked before I could stop myself. Several nearby conversations stopped. A group of hockey players by the stairs turned to watch, abandoning their drinking game entirely.

Kendra's perfect smile sharpened. Her fingernails, painted a precise shade of red that matched her dress, tapped against her cup. "Careful, sweetie. You're not the first project he's taken on. Once he gets bored—"

"Don't," Jack's voice was quiet but hard. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "You don't get to do this, Kendra."

"Do what? Warn her? Tell her how you love playing the misunderstood bad boy until—"

"Until what?" I interrupted. The music seemed too loud suddenly, the Christmas lights too bright. "Until he helps someone pass calculus? Organizes rare books at 2 AM? Protects his teammates?"

Where did that come from? When did I become the person who defends Jack Morrison? When did I start caring enough to stand up to his ex in the middle of a party?

Kendra blinked, her perfect composure cracking slightly. Behind her, someone whispered, "Oh shit," with something like admiration. "You actually believe the good guy act?"

"No," I said, taking a step forward. "I believe the bad boy who quotes Keats and handles first editions like they're precious. The one who color-codes his notes and teaches kids hockey. The one who's exactly as complicated as he pretends not to be."

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the music seemed muted. Jack was staring at me like he'd never seen me before, and somewhere in the crowd, Mike let out a low whistle.

"Whatever," Kendra finally said, but her voice wavered slightly. "You'll learn." She turned on her heel, her departure somewhat undermined by having to squeeze past a group of freshmen who were openly filming the whole thing.

"Dance with me," Jack said suddenly. The party seemed to hold its breath.

"What?"

"Dance with me." He held out his hand, his eyes never leaving mine. The Christmas lights caught the gold flecks in them, making them look almost molten. "Unless you're scared."

The music changed to something slower, though whether by coincidence or the DJ reading the room was unclear. Around us, other couples were already moving to the dance floor. However, most were still watching our drama unfold with undisguised interest.

A week ago, I would have had a dozen reasons why dancing was a terrible idea. Professional boundaries. Academic propriety. The fact that I move with all the grace of a drunken giraffe. But now...

"I'm terrible at dancing," I warned, but took his hand.

"Impossible," he said, pulling me close. The warmth of his hands through my sweater made me forget about the crowd still watching. "You're terrible at following rules. Dancing is just organized chaos."

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