Page 10 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"That many rules already?" Mr. Morrison raised an eyebrow. "Jack must be keeping you busy."

"Dad," Jack's voice had tension in it now. "Can we not?"

"I'm just saying if you put as much effort into hockey as she puts into rules—"

"Marcus," Mrs. Morrison warned.

"The NHL scouts are coming to playoffs," Mr. Morrison continued. "You need to focus. Your whole future—"

"May I be excused?" Jack stood abruptly. "I have plays to review."

He left before anyone could respond. Emma looked close to tears.

"Nice going, Dad," Dex muttered.

I found myself standing, too. "I should... check on the tutoring schedule." And not because seeing Jack hurt makes something in my chest ache. Absolutely not because I want to comfort him. That would violate at least twelve rules.

"Rule 335," he said without looking at me when I found him in the garage, sitting on his motorcycle and staring at nothing. "No personal discussions."

"I was actually going to cite Rule 779," I said, moving closer. "All participants must maintain optimal mental state for academic success." Don't notice how vulnerable he looks. Don't think about hugging him. Don't-

"Sophie." His voice was rough. "You're the only person who's ever seen... who didn't just accept the reputation."

"Maybe you're the only person worth looking past it for."

"They're talking about us," I murmured.

"Let them." His hands tightened slightly. "Unless you're worried about your reputation?"

Yes. No. Maybe. Not for the reasons I should be. I thought about my carefully organized life, my neat boxes, and my predictable patterns. Then I thought about moonlit confessions in museums and motorcycle rides in the rain.

"Want to get out of here?" He held out a helmet. "I know it's against about fifty rules, but..."

I should have said no. Should have cited Rule 667 about motorcycle rides, Rule 335 about personal interactions, or any of the hundred other rules I'd created specifically to prevent moments like this.

Say no. Say you have to catalog something. Say anything except-

"Yes."

His smile was different this time – real, not his usual smirk. He started the bike, and I climbed on behind him, trying to remember if I had a rule about holding onto bad boys who smelled unfairly good and had surprising depth.

"Hold tight," he said, and I did, refusing to analyze how my heart raced when my arms wrapped around him.

As we roared away from the house, I could have sworn I saw his grandmother in the window, smiling like she knew something I didn't.

This is a mistake, I thought, even as I tightened my hold on him. This is the kind of mistake that starts with a motorcycle ride and ends with a broken heart. He's still the guy who breaks rules and skips assignments. Still, the guy with a string of broken hearts behind him. Still, the guy who...

But then he turned his head slightly, catching my eye with a smile that made my heart stutter, and all my carefully constructed arguments seemed to fade into the wind rushing past us.

"Still scared?" he called over his shoulder.

"Of your driving or your family dynamics?" I shot back, making him laugh – that real laugh that transformed his whole face.

Oh no. I'm in trouble. Real trouble. The kind that can't be solved with rules or organization or carefully maintained distance.

Because the real problem wasn't that Jack Morrison broke rules. It wasn't even that he made me want to break them, too. The real problem was that I was starting to understand why all those girls had risked their hearts on him. Starting to see how someone could fall for the bad boy who quoted Victorian literature and spun his little sister around the hallway and looked at rare books like they were precious things.

I was going to need more rules. A whole new binder of them. Starting with Rule 1001: No falling for your mentee, no matter how good he looks in a dress shirt, how gently he handles first editions, or how his genuine smile makes your heart forget how to beat properly.

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