Page 57 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"First edition Darwin? Maybe. That's why I need your expertise. The binding looks right, but the title page has some inconsistencies with the reference guides."

He handed me the book carefully, his fingers brushing mine in a way that wasn't deliberate and wasn't reminding me of motorcycle rides and rain-soaked confessions.

"The paper quality is consistent with the period," I said, focusing on facts rather than feelings. "The foxing patterns here and here suggest authentic aging. And this watermark—"

"Matches the publisher's records from 1859," he finished. "I checked against the library's reference materials. But look at the typesetting on page 47."

I looked. He was right - there was a subtle irregularity in the spacing that needed investigation.

"You've been researching this."

"Don't sound so surprised." But his voice was warm, teasing. "Some of us paid attention during your lectures on book authentication. Even if we were pretending not to."

"I thought you were sleeping through those."

"I was admiring how passionate you got about paper grain analysis. There's a difference."

Don't blush. Don't remember how he looked in those late-night study sessions, glasses slipping down his nose as he took notes about book preservation.

"What else have you found?" I asked, moving to safer territory.

He showed me his collection - each book carefully chosen, thoroughly researched, and properly preserved. He knew the history of each volume, the significance of each edition, and the proper handling techniques for different bindings.

"This one's my favorite," he said, lifting a weathered volume with gentle hands. "Early medical text. Pre-germ theory, so the treatments are basically medieval torture meets wishful thinking. But look at the illustrations."

The anatomical drawings were beautiful in their inaccuracy - all artistic interpretation and educated guesswork. Jack handled the pages with practiced care, his fingers barely touching the paper as he turned them.

"The author thought diseases were caused by bad air and unbalanced humors," he said, enthusiasm making him forget to maintain his casual facade. "But the surgical technique descriptions are surprisingly advanced for the period. The detail in these amputation diagrams—"

He stopped, catching himself. "Sorry. You probably know all this already."

"No, it's... keep going."

Watching Jack Morrison geek out about historical medical texts while handling rare books with perfect preservation techniques was doing something to my carefully maintained defenses.

Something dangerous.

"Really?" His eyes lit up behind those ridiculous glasses. "Because there's this fascinating section on battlefield medicine that reminds me of early sports medicine protocols. The emphasis on quick intervention, the focus on mobility restoration—"

"Jack."

"Yeah?"

"How long have you been collecting medical texts?"

He ducked his head, suddenly fascinated by the book's marbled endpapers. "Since... since the first time you showed me the museum's medical collection. The way you talked about how these books weren't just records, but windows into how we learned to heal each other..."

Oh.

"That was months ago."

"Yeah."

"Before everything with Sarah and the trustees and—"

"Yeah."

The silence stretched between us, heavy with implications. Finally, I had to ask:

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