Two hours later, I had learned several things about Jack Morrison that were seriously threatening my carefully constructed worldview: 1) He actually had intelligent thoughts about Victorian literature, 2) He deliberately dumbed himself down around his teammates, 3) His hair did this incredibly distracting thing when he ran his hands through it while thinking, and 4) I was in serious trouble.

"Same time, Thursday?" he asked as we packed up, deliberately brushing my hand as he returned my pen. The contact sent sparks shooting up my arm.

"That depends," I said, ignoring the electricity from his touch and the way his cologne seemed to have saturated the air in our small study room. "Are you planning to follow any of the rules?"

"What do you think?" He grinned, and I added Rule 73: No grins that make tutors forget Victorian literature.

"Thursday," I agreed, already planning to laminate at least twelve more rules before then, including one about the prohibited use of reading glasses in combination with literary tattoos.

"Wouldn't dream of missing it." He paused at the door, those impossible eyes catching mine. "Oh, and Sophie? You missed a button on your cardigan. Very scandalous for the Victorian era."

I looked down automatically. All buttons present and accounted for. When I looked up to call him out on the trick, he was gone, his laughter echoing down the hall.

I was going to need more rules. And possibly a Victorian fainting couch. And something stronger than tea to deal with the fact that the campus bad boy had just demonstrated a better understanding of Victorian social norms than most of my literature professors.

Oh, who was I kidding? I was in so much trouble.

Chapter three

Rules of Engagement

By our third tutoring session, my rules had evolved from a simple laminated sheet into what Dex called "The Manifesto of Mutual Torture." It was now a full binder, complete with color-coded tabs, subsections, and an index. I'd spent six hours organizing it, which was a normal amount of time to think about ways to not think about Jack Morrison.

The binder wasn't just about maintaining professional distance anymore. It was about protecting myself from precisely the kind of guy who'd think nothing of breaking hearts and library regulations with equal abandon. This morning's campus gossip featured yet another story about his latest conquest – apparently, he'd been seen leaving the swim team captain's party with two girls on consecutive nights.

"Rule 147b," I read aloud as Jack slouched into Study Room 204 exactly seventeen minutes late, as usual. His hair was artfully messed up in that way that probably took an hour to perfect, and there was a mark on his neck that lookedsuspiciously like a hickey. "All participants must maintain proper posture during sessions. No slouching, lounging, or deliberately distracting poses."

He immediately slid lower in his chair, making it look like a modeling advertisement. "Define 'deliberately distracting.'"

"Rule 228," I continued, ignoring both him and the way my stomach clenched at the sight of that mark on his neck. "No removal of outerwear during sessions unless room temperature exceeds 78 degrees Fahrenheit."

"It's at least 80 in here," he said, shrugging off his leather jacket to reveal a white t-shirt that had to be deliberately chosen for maximum academic disruption. That's when I saw them – intricate tattoos trailing down both arms, black ink against tanned skin.

I didn't stare. And I also didn't wonder what the tattoos meant, how far they extended under his shirt, or why someone who'd just left a party at 4 AM (according to Twitter) still managed to look frustratingly perfect at 2 PM.

"Like what you see?" He caught me looking because, of course, he did. "Want me to explain what they mean?"

"Rule 335," I said quickly, shuffling papers. "No personal questions or discussions unrelated to academic subjects." Like why you smell like perfume that isn't yours, or why there are three different Tweets about you breaking Melissa Thompson's heart last night.

"They're related to literature," he said, stretching in a way that made the tattoos ripple. The movement revealed another suspicious mark under his collar. "This one's from Paradise Lost." He pointed to a design that wound around his bicep. "And this sleeve is all Shakespeare."

"That's..." ...exactly the kind of pretentious thing a guy would get to impress girls who think quoting poetry makes you deep. "...against Rule 335."

My phone buzzed with a campus alert – someone had put soap in the library fountain again last night. The same night, Jack had allegedly been at that party. The timing was suspicious, to say the least.

"You've really thought about every possible situation, haven't you?" He leaned forward, and I caught a glimpse of another tattoo at his collar, right next to what was definitely a hickey. "Must have spent a lot of time thinking about me to come up with all these rules."

"I spent exactly as much time as necessary to maintain proper academic boundaries," I lied like I hadn't stayed up until 3 AM, adding Rule 479 about the prohibited use of literary quotes in potentially flirtatious contexts. "Especially given your recent... activities."

His expression sharpened. "My activities?"

"The swim team party? The library fountain? Or should we discuss how you managed to make two different girls cry in the same weekend?"

"Ah." That dangerous smile appeared. "Been keeping tabs on me?"

"It's hard not to when the entire campus is buzzing about your latest conquests." I pulled out my laptop, jaw tight. "Though I suppose that's easier than actually doing your assignments. How many have you missed this week? Three?"

His casual demeanor slipped for just a second. "Didn't realize my personal life was such a fascination for you."