Page 43 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

He smiled, that real smile that belonged to poetry and moonlight rather than hockey rinks and bad boy reputations. "Some things are worth the risk."

And there in the museum, surrounded by Victorian medical history and the weight of expectations, Jack Morrison – hockey star, secret poet, and the most complicated person I'd ever met – leaned in closer and kissed me like we had all the time in the world. The kiss seemed to be a promise – a vow.

Like our story was just beginning.

As if some things were more important than meeting expectations or maintaining reputations.

Like love could be as simple as dental tools and hockey pucks, as complicated as family pressure and academic boundaries, as perfect as poetry written in moonlight.

And maybe that's what made it real.

Even if my father was probably already researching sports medicine programs.

Even if Jack's grandmother was probably writing this whole scene into her scrapbook.

Even if we still had no idea how to explain any of this to our families.

Sometimes, the best stories are the ones you have never seen before.

Even if they involve Victorian medical artifacts, hockey playoffs, and grandmothers with surprisingly detailed documentation of your love life.

Especially then.

Chapter fourteen

Breaking Point

There are exactly seventeen different ways to organize Victorian medical tools, but only one way to completely shatter trust: start believing the whispers you've been trying to ignore.

I was reorganizing the museum's dental collection for the third time that week (definitely not because it gave me a perfect view of hockey practice through the window) when Sarah Thompson walked in. She moved with the kind of grace that suggested she'd never accidentally assaulted anyone with historical artifacts, and her smile had edges sharp enough to cut.

The music building was just across the quad, and I'd seen her there often enough to know her reputation – brilliant pianist, guaranteed symphony spot after graduation, the kind of talent that made other musicians quit in despair. She wore confidence like designer perfume and carried herself like someone who'd never doubted her place in the world.

"Sophie Chen," she said, saying my name like a diagnosis. "Just the person I was looking for."

Don't panic. Just because she's Jack's ex doesn't mean anything. Just because she's gorgeous and poised and probably never color-codes dental tools—

"The museum's closed for cataloging," I said, clutching a Victorian-era tooth key like a shield. The metal felt cold against my palm, grounding me in reality even as my world started to tilt.

"Oh, this won't take long." She perched on the edge of a display case with casual disregard for museum protocol. Her perfectly manicured nails traced patterns on the glass, making my curatorial soul cringe. "I just thought you should see something. Before you get in too deep."

Through the window, I could see the hockey team finishing practice. Jack was leading cool-down drills, his captain's C visible even from this distance. He moved with the same grace Sarah had, but different – all power where she was precision, strength where she was delicacy.

Stop watching him. Stop noticing things. Stop pretending you belong in his world when girls like Sarah exist—

She pulled out her phone, scrolling through images with practiced efficiency. "Jack has a pattern, you see. He likes projects. Girls he can 'reform' for. Last year, it was me – the music major, who got him interested in classical compositions. He spent hours at my rehearsals, learned every piece I played, and even wrote poetry about Chopin."

My hands tightened on the tooth key.

"Before that, Emma, the artist who had him sketching between practices. He filled notebooks with drawings of her work and quoted art history like he'd studied it all his life. And Kendra taught him French." Her smile sharpened. "And now you, with your Victorian literature and medical history. Tell me, has hestarted writing poems about dental tools yet? Quoting medical texts like they're love songs?"

Don't listen. Don't think about how perfectly they probably fit into his world. Don't imagine him discussing music and art and French with girls who don't trip over their own feet. Don't remember how he quotes Victorian literature like poetry, how he handles rare books like treasures, how he makes medical history sound like romance—

"That's not—"

"Here." She held out her phone. "His texts from when we were together. Notice anything familiar?"

I shouldn't have looked. I should have cited museum policy about personal devices near artifacts. Should have remembered all the moments that proved Jack was more than his reputation. Should have thought about the way he looked at me in moonlight, how he defended me to Kendra, how he showed me parts of himself he claimed no one else had seen.

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