Page 8

Chapter eight

Bookstore Blues

R are book research after midnight is probably not the wisest academic choice. Yet here I was, standing outside Preston's oldest bookstore at 8:57 PM on a Friday, trying to convince myself this was purely about my desperate need for an 1856 medical text.

The bells chimed softly as I entered Blackwood's Books, the smell of old paper and leather bindings hitting me like a fever dream. Jack was behind the counter, wearing those reading glasses and frowning at a ledger like it had personally offended him.

"We're closing in—" he looked up, and something flickered across his face. "Oh. Let me guess. Purely academic visit?"

"I need the Thompson Guide to Victorian Medical Practices." I gripped my laptop bag tighter, trying not to notice how the dim lighting made his eyes look darker behind those glasses. "For research."

"At nine PM on a Friday?"

"Science doesn't sleep."

And apparently, neither does my ability to make up increasingly ridiculous excuses to see you.

"Right." He closed the ledger but didn't take off his glasses. The combination of tattoos and scholarly eyewear was doing things to my heart rate. "Follow me."

He led me through the maze of shelves, navigating the cramped aisles with familiar ease. His leather jacket brushed against vintage spines, and I tried not to think about the last time we'd been alone among old books.

"Should be here somewhere," he muttered, scanning the medical section. "Unless someone else needed Victorian medical practices at nine PM on a Friday."

"Are you implying my research schedule is unusual?"

"I'm implying," he pulled a book from the shelf, hand brushing mine as he passed it over, "that some people might have ulterior motives for visiting bookstores after hours."

Like making up excuses to see someone who handles rare books like they're precious? Who remembers exactly how you organize your research materials? Who looks unfairly attractive in reading glasses and probably knows it?

Thunder cracked outside, making me jump. "Is it raining?"

"Started a few minutes ago." He reached past me to grab another book, his arm practically pinning me to the shelves. "Here's the companion volume. They're usually referenced together."

"How do you know that?"

"Maybe I actually read the books I organize at 2 AM." His smile was softer than his usual smirk. "Or maybe I just like surprising you."

Rain drummed against the windows, casting strange shadows through the stained glass. Jack's glasses caught the light, making his eyes look darker than usual.

"I should go," I said, clutching the books to my chest. "Before it gets worse."

"Sophie." He took off his glasses, and that was somehow worse. "It's pouring. How did you get here?"

"Walked."

"Of course you did." He ran a hand through his hair. "Give me five minutes to close up. I'll give you a ride."

True to his word, Jack had the store closed in five minutes, shelving the last few returns with a speed that suggested he'd done this before. Outside, the rain had turned the street into something out of a Gothic novel.

"Here," he shrugged off his leather jacket. "Can't have the books getting wet."

"The books?"

"Right. Them too." He helped me wrap the books securely, then draped his jacket over my shoulders. It was warm from his body and smelled like old books.

His motorcycle gleamed in the rain, water beading on black chrome. Jack swung on with practiced grace, then held out a helmet.

"Coming, museum girl?"

I should have called a cab. Should have waited out the storm. Should have remembered all the reasons standing in the rain with Jack Morrison was a terrible idea.

Instead, I put on the helmet and climbed behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. His shirt was already damp, fabric clinging to muscles that made thinking increasingly difficult.

"Hold tight," he said, and I couldn't tell if he was smirking. The bike roared to life under us, and I tightened my grip instinctively.

The ride was exhilarating and terrifying. The rain stung my face where the helmet didn't cover, but I barely noticed. Jack's body was warm against mine, solid and natural, making my carefully constructed world seem very far away.

We pulled up to my apartment building too soon. Or not soon enough, depending on which part of my frantically racing heart you asked.

"Thanks," I said, reluctantly unwrapping my arms from his waist. "For the books. And the ride."

"Keep the jacket," he said as I started to take it off. "You can return it at our next session."

"Right."

He reached out, brushing a raindrop from my cheek. The touch sent electricity through my skin that had nothing to do with the storm.

"Sophie," he said softly, and my name sounded different in the rain. "I—"

Say something. Move away. Don't just stand here drowning in the way he says your name like it's poetry. Don't think about how easy it would be to—

A car horn blared, making us both jump. The moment shattered like a dropped specimen jar.

"I should go," I said quickly. "Early museum shift tomorrow."

"Right." He kicked his bike back to life. "Wouldn't want to keep the dental tools waiting."

I watched him ride away, his jacket heavy on my shoulders. It wasn't until I got inside that I noticed he'd slipped something into the pocket – a copy of Keats's poetry, with certain passages marked in his familiar handwriting.

The first highlighted line read: "I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for religion – I have shuddered at it. I shudder no more – I could be martyred for my religion – Love is my religion – I could die for that."

Underneath, he'd written: "Some things are worth the risk."

I spent the next hour organizing dental tools, trying to convince myself that the warmth in my chest was just from his jacket.

The thing was, I was starting to understand how someone could fall for Jack Morrison. Not the campus bad boy with his bike and leather jacket, but the person who read Keats at 2 AM and treated rare volumes like treasures. The one who noticed details and remembered quotes and gave up his jacket in the rain.

The one who's making it harder and harder to remember why I'm supposed to be keeping my distance.

And that was infinitely more dangerous than any reputation.

As I fell asleep that night, still wrapped in his jacket, I couldn't help wondering what other surprises Jack Morrison had hidden behind that carefully maintained facade.

And why, despite every logical argument against it, I wanted to discover them all.

The next morning, I was still wearing his jacket when Dex burst into my room, brandishing her phone like it contained state secrets.

"Care to explain why my brother's Instagram story shows his motorcycle in front of our building at midnight?"

I pulled his jacket tighter, breathing in the lingering scent of cedar and old books. "He gave me a ride home from the bookstore. In the rain. That's all."

"Really?" She perched on my bed, eyes gleaming. "Because there's also a rather poetic Keats quote in his latest post. The one about love being a religion? Since when does Jack post poetry?"

"Maybe he's expanding his literary horizons."

"While giving late-night motorcycle rides to his tutor?"

I threw a pillow at her, but my aim was as bad as the night I'd first assaulted Jack with dental tools. "It's not like that. We... understand each other. Sort of."

"Sort of?" She picked up the Keats volume that had fallen from his jacket pocket. "Is that what we're calling midnight poetry exchanges now?"

What are we calling this? This thing that's more than tutoring but less than dating? This careful dance between what we're supposed to be and what we're becoming?

"It's complicated."

"Because of the mentoring thing? Or because you're both too stubborn to admit there's something here?"

I flopped back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. "He's not what I thought he was."

"No kidding. Last week, I caught him reorganizing his bookshelf according to the literary period. The guy who once turned the library fountain into a hockey rink was color-coding his classics collection."

"He does that at the bookstore, too. And he knows more about Victorian literature than most of my professors."

And he marks poetry passages that make my heart stop. And he looks at books the way most people look at art. And he's making it impossible to keep pretending this is just academic.

"You sound surprised."

"I am. He's supposed to be the campus bad boy. The guy who breaks rules and hearts. Not... not someone who reads Keats and remembers how I organize medical texts and gives up his jacket in the rain."

Dex's expression softened. "Maybe that's exactly who he is. Both things. The guy who races motorcycles through campus and the one who stays up late reading poetry. The hockey star who breaks into libraries to study in quiet."

"When did he get so complicated?"

"Pretty sure he always was. You just weren't looking."

No, I was too busy making rules. Too busy maintaining distance. Too busy pretending I wasn't noticing every little thing about him.

I sat up, pulling his jacket closer. "I think I'm looking now. And I don't know what to do about it."

"Do you want to do something about it?"

The question hung in the air like the last notes of a symphony. Did I? Did I want to risk everything – my academic reputation, our mentoring relationship, my carefully ordered world – for the guy who quoted Keats in the rain?

For the guy who remembers how I take my coffee during late study sessions. Who looks at me like I'm more interesting than any book he's ever read.

"He makes me want to take risks," I admitted finally. "And that terrifies me."

"Good." Dex stood, grinning. "Because he just texted asking if you'd be at tonight's hockey game. The team wants to meet the girl who's got their captain quoting Romantic poetry at midnight."

"I don't know anything about hockey."

"But you know about taking risks now, don't you?"

She left me there, surrounded by the scent of cedar and old books, holding a volume of Keats that felt less like a book and more like a beginning.

Maybe it was time to stop categorizing Jack Morrison and trying to fit him into neat boxes labeled 'bad boy,'' secret intellectual,' or 'off limits.'

Maybe it was time just to let him be all of it – the motorcycle rebel and the midnight reader, the hockey star and the poetry lover.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time to let myself be more than the uptight academic who never took chances.

I picked up my phone and typed: "I don't know the first thing about hockey."

His response came immediately: "I don't know the first thing about Victorian medical practices. Didn't stop you from teaching me."

"Is that an invitation?"

"That's a promise. Front row seats. I'll even explain the rules."

"No motorcycle rides to the rink?"

"Wouldn't dream of it. Though you're still wearing my jacket, aren't you?"

I smiled, breathing in cedar and possibility. "Maybe."

"Keep it. It looks better on you, anyway. See you at seven?"

"Seven," I agreed, already wondering what one wears to watch him play hockey while wearing his jacket and carrying his copy of Keats.

Life had gotten wonderfully, terrifyingly complicated.

And for once, I was ready to embrace the chaos.

The hockey rink was a world I'd actively avoided until now, dismissing it as the antithesis of academic pursuit. But standing here in Jack's leather jacket, clutching a worn copy of Keats, I had to admit there was something electric about the atmosphere.

"Is that his jacket?" A girl behind me whispered to her friend. "Jack Morrison's actual jacket?"

"Impossible," her friend replied. "He never lets anyone wear it. Sarah tried to borrow it when they dated last semester, and he practically ran away."

I sank lower in my seat, but Dex just grinned beside me. "Oh, just wait until they see what's in your pocket."

"The Keats stays hidden," I hissed. "I have a reputation to maintain."

"Pretty sure that reputation went out the window when you showed up to a hockey game wearing the team captain's jacket."

Before I could respond, the teams skated out for warm-ups. I'd seen Jack in various states of academic dishevelment, but this was different. On the ice, he moved with a grace that belonged in poetry. His jersey – number 13, because, of course, he'd choose an unlucky number – clung to broad shoulders I wasn't noticing.

"Captain's looking sharp tonight," one of the girls behind us commented. "Think it has anything to do with the tutor everyone's talking about?"

"The museum girl? No way. Jack Morrison doesn't do relationships. He does wild parties and motorcycle races and—"

"Poetry annotations at midnight?" I muttered under my breath.

Dex snorted. "Don't forget the color-coded bookshelf."

Jack spotted us during warm-ups. Even through his helmet, I could see that infuriating smirk. He skated past our section, deliberately showing off with a complex move that made the crowd gasp.

"Show-off," I called out, just loud enough for him to hear.

He lifted his helmet visor, revealing eyes dancing with mischief. "Thought you might appreciate the academic application of physics and momentum."

"Is he... flirting through scientific principles?" someone behind us whispered incredulously.

"While doing a hockey trick?" another added.

"In front of the whole crowd?"

Of course, he is. Apparently, Jack Morrison can make even physics sound like poetry because he understands what he's doing to my carefully maintained academic facade.

I pulled his jacket tighter, fighting a smile. "Your form needs work, Morrison."

"Such a harsh critic." He grinned. "Maybe I need a private tutoring session to improve my technique."

The nearby crowd went silent, probably wondering if they'd just witnessed Jack Morrison, notorious commitment-phobe, publicly flirting through academic metaphors.

"Focus on your game," I said, but I couldn't help smiling. "Though your metaphorical application of educational principles to athletic pursuit is... noted."

His laugh echoed across the ice. "There's the museum girl I know and—" He caught himself, smile softening. "Save me a dance later?"

"Pretty sure there's no dancing in hockey."

"Night's young." He winked, then skated away to join his team, leaving a wake of shocked whispers behind us.

"Did Jack Morrison just... "But he never..."With the museum girl?"

With the girl who hit him with dental tools. Who makes him color-code his notes? Who's currently wearing his jacket like some academic letter sweater.

Dex bumped my shoulder. "Still think he's just the campus bad boy?"

I pulled out his copy of Keats, running my fingers over his annotations in the margins. Next to a particularly passionate verse, he'd written: "Some reputations are worth risking. Some people are worth the leap."

"No," I said softly, watching him lead his team through warm-ups, all power and grace and hidden depths. "He's something much more interesting."

"And much more dangerous?" Dex teased.

"Only to my carefully constructed worldview."

The game began, and I found myself actually enjoying it. Not just because Jack was a brilliant player – though he was, all strategic moves and explosive speed – but because I could see the poetry in it. The rhythm of plays, the flow of motion, the story written in ice and skill.

"He's always played center," Dex explained, noticing my interest. "It's the quarterback of hockey - you have to see the whole game, control the pace, set up the plays. Dad wanted him on wing, said it was better for scoring, but Jack insisted. Said he'd rather make the plays than just finish them."

Of course, he's center. The position requires both strategy and creativity. The one that has to understand every other player's role. Just like how he sees the connections between Victorian literature and modern life, he brings together seemingly opposite worlds.

"You're watching him like he's a rare book," Dex observed.

"I'm watching him like he's a contradiction," I corrected. "One I'm finally ready to understand."

Jack scored the winning goal with seconds left, a beautiful shot that even I could appreciate. The crowd erupted, but he looked straight at our section, touched his heart, and then pointed to the pocket where I'd tucked his copy of Keats.

Uh oh! He's not even trying to hide it anymore. Not trying to maintain the facade or trying to pretend this is just tutoring.

And in that moment, surrounded by screaming fans and the smell of cedar cologne, I realized something important: sometimes, the best stories are the ones that don't fit neatly into genres.

Just like the best people are the ones who refuse to be categorized.

Just like Jack Morrison, who raced motorcycles and read poetry, who played hockey and quoted Keats, who wore leather jackets and reading glasses.

Just like me, discovering that maybe I didn't need to choose between the museum girl and someone who could appreciate both Victorian literature and a perfect slap shot.

Their dreams didn’t have to exist in two different worlds. She had felt every moment on the ice with him. They could, she realized, be complimentary to each other and push each other to new heights.

Maybe we could all be contradictions.

Maybe that's what made us interesting.