Page 6 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"Did you read any of Wuthering Heights, or were you too busy living up to your reputation?"

"You believe everything you hear, don't you?" He sat forward; that lazy smirk was gone. "Tell me, Sophie, does it make it easier to judge me if you don't know the truth?"

"I know enough." I gestured to his neck. "The evidence is pretty clear."

"Really?" His voice had an edge now. "Then you must know I spent last night tutoring Mike in calculus. The swim team party? I was there for twenty minutes to pick up my drunk teammate before he did something stupid. But that wouldn't fit your perfect narrative about the campus bad boy, would it?"

"And the library fountain?"

"Check the cameras. I was in the gym until midnight." He leaned back, that mask of indifference sliding back into place. "But you'd rather believe the rumors. Makes it easier to keep your neat little world organized, doesn't it?"

I felt my face heat. "Then explain the..." I gestured vaguely to his neck.

"Birthmark," he said flatly. "But thanks for the character assessment. Always good to know where I stand with my oh-so-professional tutor."

Oh. Shame crept up my neck, but I pushed it down. "That doesn't explain your dating history. Or the missed assignments. Or—"

"Did you want to study," he cut me off, voice cold, "or did you just want to list all the reasons you think I'm beneath you?"

"I—"

"Because I've got practice in an hour, and I'd rather not waste time being judged by someone who thinks she knows my whole story based on Twitter gossip."

The silence that followed was thick with tension. He pulled out his copy of Wuthering Heights – extensively annotated,I noticed, with actual literary analysis – and began reading, deliberately ignoring me.

Way to go, Sophie. Real professional.

"You didn't let me finish," I said finally, softer. "I was going to say the missed assignments don't match your clear understanding of the material. Your analysis of Heathcliff's character development was..."

He glanced up. "Was what?"

"Insightful," I admitted. "Which makes the missing work more frustrating."

Something flickered in his eyes. "Maybe some of us have reasons for not living up to expectations."

"Like maintaining a carefully crafted reputation?"

His smile was bitter. "Rule 335, remember? No personal discussions."

"Maybe..." I took a breath. "Maybe we could suspend that rule. Temporarily."

He studied me for a long moment, and I tried very hard not to notice how the afternoon light turned his eyes almost gold. "Why? So you can gather more material for your judgments?"

"No, so I can understand why someone who clearly understands Victorian literature pretends he doesn't."

"You really want to know?" He leaned forward. "Or do you just want to confirm your theories about the bad boy who's wasting university resources?"

"I want to understand," I said honestly. "Even if it means admitting I might have been..."

"Wrong?"

"Hasty in my judgments."

His eyes searched my face, looking for something – mockery, maybe, or judgment. Whatever he saw made him sit back with asigh, running a hand through his hair in a way that looked less practiced and more genuinely tired.

"Did you know," he said finally, "that I got my first hockey stick before I could walk? Family legacy and all that. Morrison men play hockey. It's what we do."

"And what about what you want to do?"

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