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Chapter one

The Dental Tools of Destiny

T he thing about vintage dental tools is that they make terrible projectile weapons. This wasn’t something I'd ever considered until the exact moment my messenger bag sailed through the air and hit the most infuriatingly attractive human being I'd ever seen squarely in the back of his head.

I should mention that this wasn't happening in some dimly lit alley where one might reasonably expect to be assaulted with antique instruments. This was the pristine quad of Preston University, where I'd been speed-walking after finishing my volunteer shift at the campus museum. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and I was about to commit what could technically be classified as assault with a historical weapon.

My spatial awareness issues are legendary on campus. The museum curator created a special "Sophie-proof" section after I knocked over an entire display trying to take a selfie with a Victorian-era microscope. My best friend Dex keeps threatening to start a blog called "Sophie vs. Gravity: A Daily Chronicle." The most recent entry would have been yesterday when I managed to trip up the library stairs while carrying exactly one piece of paper. The paper, naturally, floated gracefully to the top step while I sprawled in a distinctly ungraceful heap at the bottom.

So, really, it was only a matter of time before I accidentally assaulted someone. I just wish it hadn't been him. And I wish I hadn't been wearing my "Libraries are Lit" sweater when it happened. Nothing says "take me seriously" quite like accidentally assaulting someone while wearing a nerd pun.

The victim of my ballistic incompetence turned around. I immediately wished the ground would open up and swallow me whole. Until now, I'd only seen Jack Morrison from a safe distance, usually through library windows while pretending to organize books. The distance, it turned out, had been doing me a favor by hiding how devastating he was up close.

He had the kind of face that made Renaissance artists weep – all sharp jawline and perfect cheekbones, softened just enough by perpetually amused eyes to make him seem approachable. Fatal mistake, that – like thinking a tiger is just a big housecat because it's pretty. His dark hair fell across his forehead in that perfectly imperfect way that suggested either hours of careful styling or absolutely none at all. I was betting on the former, which somehow made him even more infuriating.

No one should look that good after being hit in the head with a bag of antiques, I thought indignantly. It's offensive to the natural order of things.

The leather jacket he wore looked expensive but well-worn, creasing at his shoulders in a way that suggested it had seen its share of fights and falls. His white t-shirt underneath (and seriously, who wears white shirts and still looks that good?) stretched across his shoulders, which explained why most of the female campus population had collectively lost their minds over him.

But it was his hands that caught my attention – artist's hands, with long fingers and unexpected calluses, currently running through his hair in a gesture that should have been outlawed for the good of academic focus everywhere. A tattoo peeked out from under his sleeve, something with curling letters that made my literary heart skip a beat before I firmly reminded it that we did not find bad boys with literary tattoos attractive, even if they did have unreasonably perfect forearms.

Jack Morrison, hockey star and campus bad boy, whose exploits were legendary enough to have their own Twitter account. Twitter, sadly, didn't do justice to how his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when he smiled or how he had a small scar above his lip that made him look more like a romance novel hero than a guy who'd probably been in too many fights.

Stop noticing things about him; I mentally scolded myself. He's everything you can't stand – arrogant, disruptive, probably hasn't even read Jane Austen.

The Twitter account, I should mention, currently has more followers than the university's official page. Recent highlights included "Morrison turns library fountain into hockey rink" and "Morrison's motorcycle race through admin building: video footage!" I may or may not have been following the account. For purely academic purposes, of course. In the same way, I purely academically noticed how his jeans fit exactly how expensive jeans should fit on a guy who probably spent more time in the gym than the library.

A small crowd was gathering because nothing attracts college students like the possibility of witnessing either violence or embarrassment. In this case, they were getting both. I could already see phones being pulled out. By tomorrow, this would probably be trending: "Bad Boy Morrison Taken Down by Clumsy Museum Girl."

Keep it together, Sophie, I told myself firmly. You're a serious academic. You write scathing editorials about sports funding. You do not get flustered by pretty boys with questionable regard for library regulations, no matter how good they look in leather jackets.

"Well," he said, rubbing the back of his head with a tattooed forearm, "if you wanted my attention, there are easier ways to get it." His voice was unfairly attractive, too – deep with a hint of gravel, like he'd spent the night before either singing or shouting. Given his reputation, probably both.

His motorcycle was parked nearby because, of course, it was. Everything about him looked like he'd been custom-ordered from a "How to Be a Bad Boy" catalog, right down to the scuff marks on his boots that made them look more expensive. The bike was all sleek lines and barely restrained power, with sparkling black chrome that likely cost more than my whole college degree. It suited him well, which just irritated me more. Don’t look at his mouth, I ordered myself as he spoke. Don't notice how that tiny scar pulls when he smirks. Don't think about how many girls have probably traced that scar with their fingers. Definitely don't wonder what it would feel like to—

"You're Sophie Chen," he interrupted my increasingly dangerous train of thought, eyes scanning my face with unexpected intensity. They weren't just brown, I realized with mounting horror. They had flecks of gold in them, like autumn leaves in sunlight. Who gave this guy permission to have mesmerizing eyes?

"The one who wrote that nasty editorial about how the hockey team is 'a drain on valuable academic resources.'"

I felt my face heat up. The editorial had been published in the campus paper last month after the university announced budget cuts to the library's special collections. I may have gotten a bit carried away with my metaphors comparing hockey players to medieval barbarians. In my defense, I'd just finished a very intense research session about historical warfare.

"And you're Jack Morrison, the reason for that editorial," I said, trying to sound professional despite still being on my knees gathering my scattered belongings. The position put me at eye level with his boots, which had definitely seen some authentic wear. Not the carefully distressed kind that came from a factory, but the kind that came from actually living in them. It was oddly appealing, which was precisely the kind of thought I didn't need to be having.

"You seem well-informed about my life." His smile turned dangerous, the kind of smile that probably launched a thousand bad decisions. I watched that scar above his lip curve and firmly told myself to stop watching his mouth. "Should I be flattered?"

The crowd had grown larger, phones out and recording. Someone in the back shouted, "Kiss!" which made me want to crawl into my messenger bag and never come out. Though the way the sunlight was hitting his cheekbones, highlighting that perfect jaw, I could sort of see where they were getting the idea—

"I work in the library," I snapped, trying to ignore how his leather jacket creaked when he moved closer. The sound did something funny to my stomach that I chose to blame on hunger rather than attraction. "It's hard to miss the guy who turned the rare books room into a slip-and-slide."

"That was never proven," he said, but his grin suggested otherwise. A dimple appeared on his left cheek when he smiled like that – a completely unfair addition to his already unreasonable collection of attractive features. His eyes caught mine as he picked up my bag, and for a moment, I forgot about the crowd, the embarrassment, and everything except the way the sunlight turned those gold flecks in his eyes into actual fire.

This is ridiculous, I thought desperately. He's probably one of those people who dog-ear book pages. Or worse, breaks book spines on purpose. Stop noticing his eyes.

"You know," he added, approaching me and causing my heart to race, "you're as uptight as everyone says." His cologne hit me then – something expensive and subtle, with notes of leather and cedar that probably came with a warning label about operating heavy machinery while wearing it.

"And you're exactly as insufferable as your reputation suggests." I grabbed my bag back, ignoring how my fingers tingled when they brushed his. Static electricity, obviously. Nothing to do with the way his eyes seemed to darken at the contact or how his hands were surprisingly warm despite the cool autumn air. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be."

"The library?" He pointed to the building behind him, amusement dancing in those impossible eyes. "That's the hockey rink."

I turned to look at the building I'd been speed-walking toward, and sure enough, there was our school's mascot—a deeply confused-looking penguin wearing ice skates—painted on the wall. The actual library, I realized with dawning horror, was on the complete opposite side of campus. The crowd's whispers turned to poorly concealed laughter.

Perfect. Just perfect. Not only have I assaulted the most attractive man on campus, but I've also lost all sense of direction. Next, I'll probably start reciting Shakespeare just to complete my transformation into a walking romantic comedy cliché.

"Want to come watch practice?" he asked, that infuriating smirk back on his face. He shifted his weight, a casual movement that made his entire body look like a cologne advertisement. "You might learn that there's more to hockey players than what you read in your precious books."

The invitation hung between us, charged with something that felt dangerous. The rational part of my brain was screaming about deadlines and responsibilities and the fact that I knew nothing about hockey except that it involved ice and the occasional loss of teeth. The utterly irrational part was how his t-shirt pulled across his chest when he moved and how his fingers wrapped around his motorcycle keys with a kind of casual grace that made me forget basic math.

The crowd was watching us like a tennis match, heads swiveling back and forth. I could practically see the gossip spreading across campus already: Sophie Chen, uptight museum volunteer and defender of library budgets, facing off against Jack Morrison, hockey god and professional troublemaker. The contrast couldn't have been more stark – him in his perfectly worn leather jacket and artfully messy hair, me in my sensible sweater and practical shoes.

I should have said no. I should have remembered my study group, my paper due tomorrow, and my complete ignorance of anything sports-related. Should have recalled all the times I'd seen him roaring through campus on that motorcycle, breaking rules and probably hearts with equal abandon.

Instead, I found myself nodding, my mouth operating independently of my better judgment. "Fine. But only because I need material for my next editorial about wasted university resources."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Sophie," he said, and the way he said my name should have been illegal. His voice wrapped around those two syllables like they were something precious and dangerous at the same time, like he was already planning to use them to ruin my life, one perfectly timed smirk at a time.

He swung onto his motorcycle with a casual grace that made several onlookers sigh dreamily. The movement pulled his shirt up slightly, revealing a strip of skin and another hint of a tattoo that I hadn’t noticed. His jeans settled against the bike's leather seat in a way that suggested this was a familiar position, and I firmly told myself to stop noticing anything about how he fit on that motorcycle.

"Coming?" he asked, holding out his helmet. Like his bike, the helmet was matte black and probably cost more than my entire book collection. His fingers brushed mine as he handed it over, and I pretended not to notice how my skin tingled at the contact. "Unless you're scared."

"Of your riding or your hockey?" I challenged, even as I took the helmet. It smelled like expensive leather and bad decisions, with a hint of that cedar cologne that was going to haunt my dreams.

"Both," he winked and revved the engine. The sound rumbled through the quad like distant thunder, a perfect soundtrack to what was undoubtedly about to be a massive mistake. Show-off.

As I climbed onto the back of his motorcycle (trying very hard to maintain some semblance of personal space, which was pretty much impossible on a motorcycle), I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just made a terrible mistake. Not the kind of mistake that comes from accidental assault—I was well-versed in that kind of mistake. No, this was the kind of mistake that started with a leather-clad bad boy's smirk and ended with me doing something ridiculous like learning sports terminology or, worse, developing feelings.

Just remember, I told myself as I gingerly placed my hands on his waist, he probably leaves cups without coasters. He probably hasn't read Jane Eyre. He probably—oh wow, he's really warm.

My roommate Dex always says that romance finds you when you least expect it. I'm pretty sure she didn't mean it would find me through borderline assault. But, then again, she also collects Victorian mourning jewelry, so who is she to judge?

The crowd watched as we roared off toward the hockey rink, and I could have sworn I heard someone say, "Best meet-cute ever." His back was solid against my chest, and his leather jacket was cool under my hands but warming quickly. The bike thrummed between our legs like a mechanical heartbeat.

It wasn't a meet-cute. It was assault. And if my heart was racing, it was definitely from the motorcycle's speed, not the way Jack's leather jacket felt under my reluctantly gripping hands, or how he'd glanced back at me with those impossible eyes before taking off, or how his body seemed to fit perfectly against mine as we leaned into the first turn.

I had a feeling this was going to be a very long semester.

And I was going to need to update my collection of anti-Jack Morrison editorials to include something about the unfair advantages of perfect cheekbones in academic settings.