Page 47 of Faking the Rules

"I can't help it," I mutter, checking my reflection for the thousandth time. "The editor of Columbia University Press is going to be there. And Professor Hammond. And—"

"And Declan," Mia interrupts with a knowing smile. "Who has already read your acceptance speech twenty times and thinks it's brilliant."

Heat rises to my cheeks at the mention of his name, a Pavlovian response even after six months together. Six real months, filled with late-night conversations and early-morning coffee runs, with heated academic debates and equally heated moments in his apartment. Six months of learning each other, challenging each other, building something neither of us expected but both now cherish beyond measure.

"Declan is biased," I point out, adjusting the simple black dress I've chosen for the Whitmore Prize ceremony. After everything, I won. Not the collaborative prize that Declan and I worked for, but the solo prize. After everything, it seemed like a bad idea to submit something together after everything thathappened, how it started with a fake arrangement and a promise of help. And so I submitted on my own, and I won on my own merits, not because of anything Declan or his father did. In fact, it was probablydespitemy connection to Declan, since Richard still isn’t my biggest fan. He’s coming around, though. "He thinks everything I write is brilliant."

"Because it is," comes a voice from the doorway.

I turn to find him leaning against the frame, devastating in a charcoal suit that makes his eyes look impossibly blue. His hair, slightly longer now than during hockey season, curls just above his collar in a way that still makes my fingers itch to touch it.

"You're early," I say, heart stuttering at the sight of him despite the familiarity.

"Couldn't wait." He crosses to me, dropping a kiss on my temple—that first point of contact that has become our ritual greeting. "You look beautiful. And nervous."

"Terrified," I admit, leaning into his solid warmth. "What if I trip on stage? What if I forget my speech? What if—"

"What if you accept your prize with the same grace and brilliance you apply to everything else?" he suggests, hands settling at my waist. "What if this is just the first of many academic accolades? What if I'm the proudest boyfriend in the room, regardless of what happens?"

His steady confidence washes over me, calming the restless anxiety that's plagued me all day. This is what he does—grounds me when I spiral, challenges me when I doubt, supports me with a constancy I never knew I needed.

"When did you get so wise?" I ask, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from his lapel.

"I've always been wise. You were just too busy assuming I was a dumb jock to notice." His teasing smile takes any sting from the words, transforming them into the private joke they've become.

Mia clears her throat dramatically. "And that's my cue to leave before you two get all gross and couple-y. I'll see you at the ceremony."

She slips out, leaving us alone in the quiet of my bedroom. Declan's hands slide up to cup my face, his expression turning serious.

"I have something for you," he says. "A good luck charm."

From his pocket, he produces a small velvet box—similar to the one that held the book necklace I still wear daily, but slightly larger. My pulse quickens as he places it in my palm.

"Declan..."

"Open it," he urges softly.

Inside lies a delicate silver bracelet, elegant in its simplicity. But it's the charms hanging from it that steal my breath—a tiny book, a hockey stick, a coffee cup, a snowflake, and the Empire State Building, each one representing a moment in our shared history.

"The book is obvious," Declan explains, lifting the bracelet and gently clasping it around my wrist. "The beginning. The hockey stick for the championship. The coffee cup for all those late-night study sessions. And the snowflake for our first real snow together —the night we went ice skating and you fell so many times I thought you'd be permanently bruised. And New York for our future." New York City – where we hope to end up together, me for grad school, Declan playing for the Rangers. He should have his pick of any team, and he’s made it clear to the scouts and agents that he’s only interested in playing in New York.

Tears prick at my eyes as I examine each charm, each memory made tangible. "It's perfect," I whisper.

"There's room for more," he says, his voice carrying a weight of promise that makes my heart swell. “

He leans down to kiss me properly, his lips gentle yet insistent against mine.

"For the record," he murmurs when we part, "this was never fake for me. Not really. Not from the moment you called me an entitled jock in Harmon's class and I realized I'd do anything to see fire in your eyes again."

It’s a fact he’s reminded me of frequently, and yet I never get tired of hearing it.

"Not even when you asked Kaitlyn first?" I tease, the old wound now healed enough to become another part of our story.

He groans, tipping his forehead against mine. "I'm never living that down, am I?"

"Not in this lifetime, Wolfe."

His laugh vibrates through me, warm and rich with happiness. "Fair enough. But just remember—I may have asked her first, but you're the only one I asked twice. The only one I'm asking forever."

---