Page 52 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

Miss the evaluation and risk losing collection funding

Call Jack

Commit historical sacrilege by exposing nineteenth-century surgical tools to precipitation

Consider a career change to something less dependent on reliable transportation

My phone felt impossibly heavy as I pulled up his contact. We hadn't spoken since the trustee event, since that note he left in the surgical catalog, since everything became simultaneously more complicated and more real than I was ready to handle.

He answered on the first ring.

"Sophie?"

Just my name, but his voice still did things to my chest that probably required medical attention. Things that violated several rules about professional distance and emotional containment.

"I need—"You. No. Focus."A ride. The preservation specialist is coming, and my car's dead, and I have to transport the Civil War kit and—"

"I'll be there in five."

"But the artifacts need special handling and temperature control and—"

"Three minutes," he amended. "Don't let the bone saws get wet."

He was there in three, motorcycle gleaming wet in the storm because Jack Morrison could bend time when it came to rescuing damsels in distress with historical medical equipment.

His leather jacket was already off before he reached me, holding it out like a peace offering. Water dripped from his hair, making him look like some rain-soaked motorcycle deity – not that I was noticing things like how his white t-shirt clung to his shoulders or how the storm made his eyes look darker than usual.

"The artifacts need to stay dry," he said; all business like this was just another museum emergency, and we hadn't spent the past week avoiding each other since the trustee event. Like he hadn't left that note that I hadn't read fourteen times and color-coded by emotional impact.

"I can't—"

"Take the jacket, Sophie."

Something in his voice made me reach out. The leather was warm from his body, carrying that familiar cedar and ice scent that made my heart forget basic anatomical functions. I clutched it like a shield, trying not to think about how many other girls had worn this jacket, had breathed in this scent, had felt this warmth.

"The surgical kit won't fit in my backpack," he said, eyeing the carefully packed case. His eyes tracked the elegant brass latches, the custom padding, and the humidity indicators I'd insisted on installing. "Civil War era, right? The Billroth collection?"

"You'll have to hold it," he continued, professional mode fully engaged. "Which means you'll need to learn basic motorcycle positioning. For artifact preservation purposes."

Right. Artifact preservation. I'm not at all concerned about how this will require pressing against him for the entire ride. Purely professional. Completely—

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