Page 4 of Faking the Rules

"Professor Harmon's on the selection committee," Declan says. "He also happens to be good friends with Coach Brennan. They play golf every Sunday."

"So?"

"So Harmon values Brennan's opinion. And Brennan likes me—when I'm not disappointing him. If Coach puts in a good word about our project, about your work specifically..." He lets the implication hang in the air between us.

"That's... that's practically academic blackmail," I splutter.

"It's networking," he corrects. "Something you'd have to learn eventually if you want that PhD at Columbia."

I narrow my eyes, suspicious of how much he knows about my plans. "You're suggesting I prostitute my academic integrity for a recommendation."

"I'm suggesting a mutually beneficial arrangement." He sits back, watching me process. "You pretend to be my girlfriend, I make sure our project blows the competition out of the water, and we both get what we want. Simple."

Nothing about this is simple. I should say no immediately. Walk away. Report him to Professor Harmon for even suggesting such an unethical arrangement.

But the Whitmore Prize beckons, a golden ticket to the future I've worked so hard for. And something else tugs at me—the desperation behind Declan's carefully controlled expression, the hint that there's more riding on this than just hockey.

"Three weeks," I hear myself say, immediately wondering if I've lost my mind. "No physical stuff. No posting about it on social media. And our 'breakup' happens the day after the championship, no drama."

Relief washes over his face. "Deal."

"And you have to really work on our project," I add. "I’m not going to be the only one contributing.”

"Fine," he agrees readily. "But you have to make this convincing. The hockey team, my coach—they need to believe we're actually together."

"I think I can manage to pretend I like you for a few weeks," I say dryly.

His smile is slow, almost predatory. "Oh, Gardner. You'll have to do a lot better than 'like.'" He stands, gathering his things. "We start tomorrow. Lunch. The central quad. Wear something nice."

"I'm not changing my wardrobe for this charade," I protest.

He's already walking away, but turns to walk backward for a few steps, that infuriating smirk firmly in place. "Wouldn't dream of asking you to. You look good in anything, Gardner. Especially when you're angry."

As he disappears through the coffee shop doors, a sinking feeling settles in my stomach. What have I just agreed to? Three weeks pretending to be Declan Wolfe's girlfriend. Three weeks of living a lie. Three weeks of fighting the unwelcome attraction that flares whenever he's near.

This was a terrible idea.

Chapter 2

Ispend the night vacillating between panic and rationalization, thankful my room is a single – the perks of being a transfer student who transferred too late to have a roommate -- and I don’t have to worry about anyone noticing how insane I’m feeling.

By morning, I've convinced myself that this arrangement is strictly professional—a strategic alliance for mutual benefit, nothing more. I can handle three weeks of pretense if it gets me closer to the Whitmore Prize and the future I've planned.

This mantra carries me through my morning classes and all the way to the central quad, where Declan and I agreed to meet for our first public "date." I deliberately arrive ten minutes late, a petty act of defiance against the butterflies that have taken up residence in my stomach.

I’m wearing a pair of jeans and an aqua top, a color my friend Mia always says suits my dark hair and dark eyes. I’ve even put on some makeup, telling myself it’s for the ruse, not for actually wanting to impress Declan.

The quad is crowded with students enjoying the rare February sunshine, sprawled across benches and patches ofgrass. I scan the area, half-hoping Declan won't show so I can abandon this ridiculous scheme with a clear conscience.

No such luck. He's there, lounging on one of the central benches, impossible to miss. He's ditched his usual athletic wear for dark jeans and a navy quarter-zip that makes his eyes look even bluer in the sunlight. Several girls nearby are casting appreciative glances his way, but his attention is fixed on his phone.

I take a deep breath and approach, clutching the strap of my messenger bag like a lifeline. He looks up before I reach him, as if he's sensed my presence, and the smile that spreads across his face seems so genuine that for a moment I forget this is all pretend.

"There she is," he says, standing to greet me. Without warning, he pulls me into a hug, his mouth close to my ear as he murmurs, "Coach is watching from the administration building. Second floor, corner window."

I stiffen in his embrace, then force myself to relax, awkwardly patting his back. He smells good—that woodsy cologne mixed with something clean and uniquely him. It's disturbingly nice.

"You could have warned me," I whisper back.

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