Saving the Bookworm

The dorm apartment was quiet, save for the aggressive hum of a hair dryer coming from the bathroom and the rustle of pages as Leona Graham tried to lose herself in the final chapter of her history assignment.

"Absolutely not," Maya Horton said, marching into the common area and snatching the bookmark off the nightstand. "Leona, it is Friday night. The sun has set. The books are closed. The social isolation ends now."

Leona groaned, reaching fruitlessly for her textbook. "Maya, I have a midterm on Monday. This book is my only friend right now. It doesn't spill beer on me or ask me to do shots."

"I'll be your friend! I won't spill beer on you!" Sarah Lemons piped up, leaning against the doorframe while she struggled to fasten a chunky gold earring. "Come on, Leo. It’s the biggest party of the semester. Even the chemistry geeks are going. You're going to wither away in here."

Leona looked from Maya’s determined face to Sarah’s pleading eyes. She knew this look. It was a pincer movement. "I don't even have anything to wear that says 'I’m ready to lose brain cells.'"

"Lie," Maya countered. "You have that yellow sundress that makes you look like a literal ray of sunshine. Put it on. Ten minutes."

"I'll just be miserable the whole time," Leona warned, though her resolve was crumbling. "I’ll stand in a corner and count the seconds until I can come back to this very spot."

Maya softened, sitting on the edge of the sofa and holding up a pinky finger. "Okay, look. A deal. If we get there and you aren't having fun by midnight—and I mean actual, genuine fun—we all head back. No questions asked. You can stick your head back in a book and we’ll leave you in peace for the rest of the weekend."

Leona eyed the pinky. "Midnight? Not a minute later?"

"Cross my heart," Sarah added, joining the huddle.

"Fine," Leona sighed, standing up with a dramatic heaviness. "But when I'm standing there awkwardly while a guy named 'Chad' explains crypto to me, I’m holding you to this."

Ten minutes later, Leona stood in front of the chipped full-length mirror in her room. She’d thrown on the yellow sundress—it was simple, breezy, and comfortable enough for a quick getaway. She pulled her hair into two thick, neat braids, the kind she usually wore when she was heading to the library for an all-nighter. She leaned in, inspecting her reflection. No makeup, no fancy jewelry, just her and her braids.

"A thing of beauty I am not," she muttered to herself, adjusting the hem of the dress. "But maybe it’ll keep the creeps away. I look more like I'm headed to a barn dance than a frat basement."

She grabbed her phone and a stray quarter she’d found on her dresser, sliding it into her pocket for something to fidget with.

"Okay, let's get this over with," she called out, stepping into the living room.

Maya and Sarah stopped dead in their tracks, looking Leona up and down. Sarah let out a snort that she tried to cover with a cough.

"Oh, Leo," Maya said, her lips twitching. "You look adorable, truly. But you also look like you’re about five seconds away from calling a square dance. Do we need to find you some hay bales and a fiddle?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'Little House on the Prairie: College Edition,'" Sarah joked, reaching over to tug on the end of one braid. "Seriously, are you expecting a hoedown? All you’re missing is a picnic basket and a cow."

Leona rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "I told you I wasn't 'party ready.' This is the 'Leave Me Alone' look. It’s a classic."

"Well, it's a look alright," Maya laughed, grabbing her purse and ushering them toward the door. "At least we’re getting you out of the apartment. Even if you look like you should be churning butter, you're doing it at a party. Let's go before you change back into your sweatpants."

They headed out, Sarah still whispering about whether they could find a tractor for Leona to pose with.

They had no idea that "Midnight" was about to become the last thing on Leona's mind once she met a certain billionaire-playboy-philanthropist-wannabe with very deep dimples who would find those "square dance" braids absolutely captivating.

Owen Stark was leaning against the kitchen counter, lazily nursing a beer, when the door to the basement swung open and a burst of cool air followed three girls inside. Two of them immediately vanished into the pulsing crowd, but the third one lingered at the edge of the light.

Owen froze mid-sip. Amidst a sea of glitter, crop tops, and high-tech sneakers, she looked like she’d been dropped in from another decade—or at least another zip code. The yellow sundress was bright enough to cut through the haze, but it was the braids that got him. Two thick, perfect braids that made her look like she was more prepared to judge a livestock competition than survive a frat party.

"Check out the farm girl," one of his buddies chuckled, nudging Owen’s shoulder. "Think she’s looking for the barn?"

Owen didn't laugh. He just watched her. He watched as she navigated the room with a look of pure, academic disdain, her eyes scanning for the nearest exit before she finally settled on a lonely stool at the far end of the island. He watched her pull a silver quarter from her pocket and begin to spin it, her focus so intense you’d think she was calculating the trajectory of a moon landing rather than just killing time.

There was something about the way she held herself—like she was a "bookworm" in a world of butterflies—that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. She wasn't trying to be noticed, which, in Owen’s experience, made her the only person worth noticing.

He waited. He watched her nurse that lukewarm beer for fifteen minutes, flicking that quarter again and again. He saw her check her phone, her thumb hovering over a message, likely a "get me out of here" text to her friends.

Not on my watch, Pepper, he thought.

He pushed off the counter, a predator in an Iron Man t-shirt, and began to weave through the crowd. He didn't approach from the front; he looped around the back of the kitchen, coming up silently behind her.

The quarter was midway through a particularly fast spin, a shimmering blur on the granite, when Owen decided it was time to introduce Stark Industries to the "Little House on the Prairie."

He slammed his hand down flat over the coin. Clack.

Leona jumped, her shoulders nearly hitting her ears as she spun around on the stool. Owen didn't give her a chance to be annoyed. He just flashed those deep, signature dimples—the ones that usually got him out of speeding tickets and lab failures.

"That’s not what that’s for," he said, his voice dropping into that low, confident register. He picked up the quarter, tossed it into the air with a practiced flick, and watched with a grin as it did a perfect, metallic somersault before landing with a splash in her beer.

"Your drink. Chug it."