My Fake Boyfriend Is the School Bad Boy novel Chapter 22

Chapter 22 Flirting for an Audience

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Sixth-period study hall was held in the East Annex, a cavernous, wood-paneled room that used to be the original library before Crestview Prep built the new media center. It had high, vaulted ceilings that trapped every single sound and amplified it. A dropped pencil sounded

like a firecracker. A cough echoed for five seconds.

I walked through the heavy double doors with Ryder right beside me. The ambient noise of flipping pages and scratched graphite died an

instant, unnatural death.

Mr. Caldwell, the ancient history teacher who monitored the period, looked up from his desk at the front of the room. He pushed his wire-

rimmed glasses up his nose, his eyes darting from Ryder’s scuffed combat boots to my perfectly polished loafers, and finally resting on the

space between us, where Ryder’s large hand was resting casually against the small of my back.

The heat of his palm bled right through my uniform blazer. Every step I took felt stiff, entirely uncoordinated.

Usually, I sat in the very back corner, hidden behind a row of empty reference bookshelves. But Ryder didn’t steer us toward the shadows.

He guided me straight down the center aisle, stopping at a heavy oak table right in the middle of the room.

He pulled a chair out for me. The wooden legs scraped harshly against the linoleum floor. I sat down quickly, dropping my heavy backpack

beside my feet. Ryder took the seat directly to my right.

The silence in the room stretched, thick and suffocating. I kept my eyes pinned to the scratched surface of the table. I could feel them.

Dozens of eyes boring into the sides of my head.

“Open your book, Petrova,” Ryder murmured. His voice was a low, rough scrape against the quiet, barely carrying past our table.

I jumped slightly, my hands fumbling with the zipper of my bag. I pulled out my AP Calculus textbook and a spiral notebook, dropping them onto the wood. I flipped the heavy book open to a random page. The smell of glossy paper and fresh graphite hit my nose, a scent

that usually calmed my nerves. Today, it did nothing.

I stole a quick glance across the room.

Two tables to our left, Chloe was sitting with a group of juniors. She had her history textbook propped up in front of her face, but her phone was resting flat on the table, the camera lens angled directly at us. Behind us, I heard the distinct, sharp whisper of a girl from my

English class passing a comment to her friend.

We were completely surrounded. Harper’s spies were everywhere.

“They’re taking pictures,” I whispered, keeping my lips completely still. I stared blankly at a complex derivative equation, my heart

hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs.

“Let them, Ryder replied.

He didn’t pull out a textbook. He slouched down in his hard wooden chair, stretching his long legs out until his boot bumped against my

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Chapter 22 Flirting for an Audience

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sneaker. He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out the green plastic folder I had given him yesterday.

He tossed it onto the table. It landed with a soft slap.

I looked at him. He was staring at me, not the folder. The dark purple bruise on his cheekbone looked stark under the harsh fluorescent

lights of the Annex. He looked completely relaxed, utterly indifferent to the dozens of cameras and prying eyes locked onto us.

“We don’t look like we’re dating,” I breathed, panic tightening my throat. “We look like two people assigned to a group project who hate

each other. I’m sitting here as stiff as a board.”

“You are a board, Raisa,` he pointed out flatly.

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“I’m trying,” I shot back, a sudden flush of defensive heat rising in my cheeks. “But they are analyzing every move we make. If we just sit

here in silence for forty-five minutes, Chloe is going to text Harper and tell her this is a sham. We have to… do something.”

“Do what?” he asked, his hazel eyes darkening with a mix of amusement and challenge.

“Flirt,” I whispered, the word tasting completely foreign and ridiculous in my mouth. “We have to pretend to flirt.”

Ryder’s split lip twitched. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The faded charcoal fabric of his t-shirt pulled

tight across his shoulders.

“Alright, honors,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a dark, entirely entirely distracting register. “Show me what you’ve got. Flirt with me.”

My mind completely blanked.

I had read a hundred classic romance novels. I understood the theoretical mechanics of flirting. But sitting under the harsh lights of the

Annex, with half the junior class watching my every move, my brain short-circuited.

I swallowed hard. I reached out, my hand trembling slightly, and placed my index finger on the edge of his green folder. I slid it an inch

closer to him.

“You should really look at the European History outline,” I said. My voice sounded entirely too loud, completely devoid of anything

remotely resembling charm. “The test is heavily weighted.”

Ryder stared at the folder. Then he looked up at me. He didn’t say anything, but the flat, deadpan expression on his face made my

stomach drop.

“That was terrible,” I whispered, dropping my hand into my lap and gripping the fabric of my skirt.

‘I think my pulse actually slowed down,” he agreed softly.

“Don’t make fun of me,” I snapped quietly, my anxiety spiking into genuine frustration. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to

lean in, or touch your arm, or act like I’m completely obsessed with you when I know everyone is waiting for me to fail.”

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