Page 9 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"Want to see it?"

"Rule 892," I said weakly. "No handling of rare books outside of academic contexts." And definitely no noticing how your hands look handling rare books. Or how your cologne smells this close. Or how that shirt makes your shoulders look...

"You just made that up." He was already opening the case, handling the book with surprising care for someone who supposedly didn't care about academics. "Come here."

I moved closer, forgetting all about proper mentoring distance, as he gently opened the book. His hands, which I'd seen tape hockey sticks and throw punches, were incredibly gentle with the fragile pages.

Don't notice how careful his hands are. Don't think about how those same hands probably feel when they- NOPE. We are NOT going there.

"Look at the marginalia," he said softly, and his voice did that thing that made my stomach flip. "The previous owner was a doctor. His notes on the medical accuracy are fascinating."

We were standing very close now, both bent over the book. I could smell his soap, something expensive and subtle that violated Rule 443 about distracting personal hygiene products.

"Jackie!" A young voice broke the moment. "Mom says dinner's ready and to stop flirting with your tutor!"

Jack's sister Emma stood in the doorway, grinning with all the malicious delight of a thirteen-year-old who'd just discovered premium blackmail material.

"We're not flirting," I said quickly, stepping back. "We're discussing nineteenth-century medical practices." We're just two people standing unnecessarily close while examining a book. Completely professional. Ignore how warm he felt standing that close. Ignore how his cologne lingers even after stepping away.

"Sure," Emma drawled, sounding exactly like her brother. "That's why you're both blushing."

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Jack asked, but his tone was softer than I'd ever heard it. "Like annoying someone else?"

"Mom sent me to get you. But first..." She held up her phone. "Say cheese!"

"Emma," Jack's voice had an edge now. "Delete it."

"Make me." She darted away, giggling.

Jack moved with surprising speed, catching her in the hallway. Instead of grabbing the phone, though, he just lifted her off her feet and spun her around while she shrieked with laughter.

"Delete it or face the tickle monster," he threatened, but he was grinning.

"Never!" She squirmed free, running toward the dining room. "Mom! Jack's being mean!"

"Am not!" He called after her, then caught me watching. His expression shifted back to its usual smirk. "Not a word about this."

Oh no. Oh NO. He's good with his sister. That's not fair. Bad boys aren't supposed to be sweet with their siblings. It violates some fundamental laws of the universe.

At dinner, I found myself seated between Dex and Mr. Morrison, directly across from Jack. His grandmother sat at the head of the table, watching everyone with knowing eyes that made me nervous.

Don't look at him, I ordered myself. Don't notice how that shirt brings out his eyes. Don't think about how he was just spinning his sister around like some romance novel hero. Don't-

"So, Sophie," Mr. Morrison said, passing the potatoes. "How's the tutoring going? Is my son behaving?"

"She has a whole binder of rules to make sure I do," Jack said before I could answer. "Very comprehensive. There's even one about proper book-holding technique."

"Rule 224," I muttered. "And you still hold them wrong."

"Jackie's always been particular about books," his grandmother said, making Jack wince at the nickname. "Used to sleep with them under his pillow as a child. Until hockey became everything, of course."

Something flickered across Jack's face. "Mom, how's the pot roast?"

Wait. He used to sleep with books? Was the campus bad boy a childhood bookworm? This is definitely going in my "Things That Make Jack Morrison Unfairly Complicated" file.

"Don't change the subject, dear." His grandmother's eyes twinkled. "Tell us more about these rules, Sophie. Any against motorcycle rides?"

"Rule 667," I said automatically, then blushed when everyone laughed. Don't think about motorcycle rides. Don't remember how solid he felt. Don't recall how perfectly you fit against his back-

---