Page 4

Chapter four

Family Ties

T here 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 keeps showing 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."

"Want to see it?"

"Rule 892," I said weakly. "No handling of rare books outside of academic contexts." And definitely no noticing how your hands look handling rare books. Or how your cologne smells this close. Or how that shirt makes your shoulders look...

"You just made that up." He was already opening the case, handling the book with surprising care for someone who supposedly didn't care about academics. "Come here."

I moved closer, forgetting all about proper mentoring distance, as he gently opened the book. His hands, which I'd seen tape hockey sticks and throw punches, were incredibly gentle with the fragile pages.

Don't notice how careful his hands are. Don't think about how those same hands probably feel when they- NOPE. We are NOT going there.

"Look at the marginalia," he said softly, and his voice did that thing that made my stomach flip. "The previous owner was a doctor. His notes on the medical accuracy are fascinating."

We were standing very close now, both bent over the book. I could smell his soap, something expensive and subtle that violated Rule 443 about distracting personal hygiene products.

"Jackie!" A young voice broke the moment. "Mom says dinner's ready and to stop flirting with your tutor!"

Jack's sister Emma stood in the doorway, grinning with all the malicious delight of a thirteen-year-old who'd just discovered premium blackmail material.

"We're not flirting," I said quickly, stepping back. "We're discussing nineteenth-century medical practices." We're just two people standing unnecessarily close while examining a book. Completely professional. Ignore how warm he felt standing that close. Ignore how his cologne lingers even after stepping away.

"Sure," Emma drawled, sounding exactly like her brother. "That's why you're both blushing."

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Jack asked, but his tone was softer than I'd ever heard it. "Like annoying someone else?"

"Mom sent me to get you. But first..." She held up her phone. "Say cheese!"

"Emma," Jack's voice had an edge now. "Delete it."

"Make me." She darted away, giggling.

Jack moved with surprising speed, catching her in the hallway. Instead of grabbing the phone, though, he just lifted her off her feet and spun her around while she shrieked with laughter.

"Delete it or face the tickle monster," he threatened, but he was grinning.

"Never!" She squirmed free, running toward the dining room. "Mom! Jack's being mean!"

"Am not!" He called after her, then caught me watching. His expression shifted back to its usual smirk. "Not a word about this."

Oh no. Oh NO. He's good with his sister. That's not fair. Bad boys aren't supposed to be sweet with their siblings. It violates some fundamental laws of the universe.

At dinner, I found myself seated between Dex and Mr. Morrison, directly across from Jack. His grandmother sat at the head of the table, watching everyone with knowing eyes that made me nervous.

Don't look at him, I ordered myself. Don't notice how that shirt brings out his eyes. Don't think about how he was just spinning his sister around like some romance novel hero. Don't-

"So, Sophie," Mr. Morrison said, passing the potatoes. "How's the tutoring going? Is my son behaving?"

"She has a whole binder of rules to make sure I do," Jack said before I could answer. "Very comprehensive. There's even one about proper book-holding technique."

"Rule 224," I muttered. "And you still hold them wrong."

"Jackie's always been particular about books," his grandmother said, making Jack wince at the nickname. "Used to sleep with them under his pillow as a child. Until hockey became everything, of course."

Something flickered across Jack's face. "Mom, how's the pot roast?"

Wait. He used to sleep with books? Was the campus bad boy a childhood bookworm? This is definitely going in my "Things That Make Jack Morrison Unfairly Complicated" file.

"Don't change the subject, dear." His grandmother's eyes twinkled. "Tell us more about these rules, Sophie. Any against motorcycle rides?"

"Rule 667," I said automatically, then blushed when everyone laughed. Don't think about motorcycle rides. Don't remember how solid he felt. Don't recall how perfectly you fit against his back-

"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.

But as we rode through the night, my arms around his waist and his warmth seeping through my cardigan, I had a sinking feeling that some rules were meant to be broken.

And Jack Morrison was exactly the kind of rule-breaker who could shatter every carefully constructed wall I'd built.

Just remember, I told myself as we curved around another corner, his body moving perfectly in sync with the bike, that he was still the campus bad boy. Still the guy who breaks hearts. Still the guy who...

But I couldn't finish the thought. Because the truth was, I wasn't sure who Jack Morrison was anymore. And that was the most terrifying part of all.