Page 8 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

I spent the next four hours updating my rules, trying to pretend I wasn't thinking about how the late afternoon light had caught gold in his eyes when he laughed. Or how his hands had gently cradled his book, betraying a love of literature that wentbeyond mere pretense. Or how that Paradise Lost tattoo hinted at depths I'd been too quick to dismiss.

The real problem wasn't that Jack Morrison broke rules. It was that he made me want to break them, too.

And that was far more dangerous than any bad boy reputation.

Chapter four

Family Ties

There are seven excuses that have successfully gotten me out of Morrison family dinners in the past: three dental tool emergencies, two fictional museum crises, one allegedly urgent paper on Victorian medical practices, and one very real incident involving a misdirected shipment of nineteenth-century tooth extractors to Boston.

But apparently, "I can't come because I might murder my mentee with a salad fork" wasn't making the list.

"Nice try," Dex said, rifling through her closet full of Victorian mourning jewelry. "But Mom already called your mom, who confirmed you have no dental emergencies, museum disasters, or paper deadlines."

"Betrayal runs in families," I muttered, watching her sort jet beads into little piles. Like the betrayal of not telling me your stupidly attractive brother was Jack Morrison. Or the betrayal of my own heart every time he smirks.

"That's not a thing." She held up two nearly identical black necklaces. "Which one says 'I respect the dead but make it fashion'?"

"The one made with actual human hair is a bit much for family dinner." Though maybe if I wear it, Jack will keep his distance. Unless he's into that sort of thing, no, Sophie, do NOT start wondering about what Jack Morrison is 'into.'

"You're right." She put it on anyway. "Mom's making pot roast. Jack's favorite."

"I don't need to know his favorite foods. That's definitely against Rule 335." And I certainly don't need to imagine him at the dinner table, with sleeves rolled up, that jawline working as he - STOP IT.

"Your rules don't apply to family dinners." She turned to face me, her expression serious despite the three mourning brooches pinned to her cardigan. "Look, I know you two have this whole enemies-with-academic-tension thing going on—"

"We do not—" We just have this entirely professional mentoring relationship where I occasionally get distracted by his forearms. And his eyes. And the way he quotes Victorian literature while wearing that stupid leather jacket.

"—but Mom hasn't had both her kids at dinner in months. Just try not to stab him with any antique medical instruments?"

This is how I found myself standing on the Morrison’s porch at exactly 6:47 PM (optimal arrival time for maximum politeness while minimizing pre-dinner small talk), clutching a bottle of wine that my mother had insisted was "appropriate for family occasions" but which I strongly suspected was really cooking wine.

You can do this, I told myself. It's just dinner. With your best friend's family. And her irritatingly perfect brother who keepsshowing up in your dreams wearing reading glasses and reciting Keats.

Mrs. Morrison—"Call me Linda, dear"—opened the door before I could knock. "Sophie! We've missed you at our Sunday dinners."

The Morrison house was like I remembered: warm, chaotic, and full of contradictions. Hockey trophies shared shelf space with antique books. A signed jersey hung next to what appeared to be a Victorian-era oil painting. Like its inhabitants, the house refused to be easily categorized.

"Jackie!" Mrs. Morrison called up the stairs. "Your tutor's here!"

"Don't call me Jackie, Mom," came an irritated voice, followed by heavy footsteps. Jack appeared at the top of the stairs, and I suddenly regretted every life choice that had led to this moment.

He was wearing a dark blue button-down shirt that made his tattoos peek out just enough to be maddening, and his hair was slightly damp like he'd just showered. It was unfair. I'd spent an hour choosing an outfit that said "professional tutor who doesn't think about her mentee's tattoos," and he looked like he'd just stepped out of a GQ magazine about bad boys who clean up nicely.

"Nice cardigan," he said, with a smirk that violated at least three rules. "Very Mary Poppins meets Victorian undertaker."

"Nice shirt," I replied. "Does it come in a size that fits?" Because seriously, it should be illegal to make dress shirts that cling like that. There have to be local ordinances against forearms that distracting.

"Children," Mrs. Morrison warned, but she was smiling. "Dinner's almost ready. Jack, show Sophie the library while I finish up."

The library. Alone. With Jack. In formal wear. This is fine. Everything is fine.

"Dad's latest acquisition," Jack said, gesturing to a glass case. Inside was a first edition of "Frankenstein" that most likely cost more than my entire dental tool collection. "He thought of you, actually. Said something about your interest in medical history."

He remembers my interests? No, stop it. His dad remembers. That's different. Completely different.

"That's..." I stepped closer, trying to maintain professional distance while also desperately wanting to examine the book. "That's a first edition. From 1818. The binding is original."

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