The first thing Amelia learned at Westbridge University was that the universe had a truly wicked sense of humor. The second thing she learned was that a large, scalding-hot latte had absolutely no respect for a brand-new, cream-colored sweater.
It happened in a chaotic, slow-motion blur of shrieks, flying liquid, and the sickening sensation of heat seeping through to her skin. One moment, she was a promising literature student, navigating the bustling main thoroughfare of the campus union with a determined grip on her coffee and a head full of carefully curated first-day-of-class aspirations. The next, she was a human canvas for a modern art piece titled "Caffeinated Disaster."
A solid wall of a person had stepped directly into her path. The collision was inevitable, a perfect storm of bad timing and crowded space.
"Ow! What the—" a deep, male voice grunted.
Amelia stumbled back, her arms flying out as the cardboard cup pirouetted gracefully from her hand before splattering its contents across the floor—and, most tragically, across the front of her pristine sweater. A brown stain bloomed across the fabric, looking like a grotesque map of a forgotten island.
Her gaze snapped up, fury and embarrassment warring for dominance in her chest. And then both emotions fizzled, replaced by a sort of stunned, horrified recognition.
He was tall, with the kind of build that suggested a personal trainer and a genetically blessed lineage. His hair was a messy, artful sweep of dark gold, and his eyes were a startling, clear blue, currently wide with surprise. He was, without a doubt, the most aesthetically pleasing person she had ever seen in real life. And he was also the guy whose expensive-looking, pale grey sweater was now sporting an identical, if slightly smaller, brown stain.
Adrian Vale.
She knew his name the way everyone on campus knew his name. He was less a person and more a campus landmark. Heir to the Vale Corporation empire, star of the rowing team, and permanent resident of every "most eligible" list since he'd first set foot on Westbridge grounds. He was the sun around which a particular social solar system orbited.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice laced with a concern that somehow managed to sound both genuine and condescending.
Amelia looked down at her ruined sweater, then back at his face. "Do I look okay?" she snapped, her voice tighter than she intended. "This was new."
A corner of his mouth quirked upwards. Not a full smile, but a flicker of amusement that made her want to throw the now-empty cup at his head. "A tragedy," he said, his tone dry. "Though, for future reference, it's generally considered good practice to look where you're going."
Her jaw dropped. "I was looking where I was going! You stepped right in front of me!"
"Debatable," he said, shrugging. He pulled a crisp, white handkerchief from his pocket—who even carried those anymore?—and offered it to her. "Here. For the… cataclysm."
She stared at the handkerchief as if it were a live snake. Taking it felt like accepting a token of surrender. "I'm fine," she muttered, swiping at the stain on her sweater with her bare hand, which only succeeded in smearing it.
"Suit yourself." He tucked the handkerchief away, his eyes scanning her from head to toe with a detached, analytical curiosity that made her feel like a specimen under glass. "Let me guess. Freshman?"
"Sophomore," she corrected, her pride prickling.
"Ah. Transfer, then. That explains the deer-in-headlights vibe and the… enthusiastic navigation."
"I'm not a transfer. I just spent my freshman year in the library, not…" She gestured vaguely at him, at the entire aura of effortless cool he projected. "Not whatever this is."
His smile widened, a flash of perfect white teeth. It was a weapon, that smile. "The library. Right. Well, maybe you should have been reading a map instead of Milton." He nodded towards the mess on the floor. "I'd offer to buy you a replacement, but I have a feeling you'd interpret it as a declaration of war. See you around, Library Girl."
And with that, he stepped around the puddle of coffee and her shattered dignity, merging back into the crowd as if he were a rock star and they were his adoring fans.
Amelia stood there, fuming, her face hot. Library Girl? She watched his retreating back, the easy way people parted for him. She could already hear the whispers, see the glances. Did you see Adrian Vale? Who was that girl? What a mess.
This was not the clean slate she had envisioned. Her plan for sophomore year had been simple, elegant: shed the awkward, studious skin of her freshman self. She was going to be bolder, join a club or two, maybe even talk to a guy without tripping over her own tongue. She was going to be Amelia 2.0: confident, interesting, and completely stain-free.
Ten minutes into her first day, and she was already a walking coffee advertisement, christened with a dumb nickname by the campus king himself.
She finally willed her feet to move, heading towards the nearest restroom to survey the damage. In the fluorescent light, the stain looked even worse. It was going to take a miracle, or industrial-grade detergent, to get it out. She leaned against the sink, taking a few deep breaths. It's fine. It's just a sweater. It's just a guy. A ridiculously handsome, infuriating guy.
Her phone buzzed in her backpack. A text from her high school friend, Sophie, who was at a state school three hours away.
Sophie: First day status report! Meet any billionaires yet?
Amelia groaned and typed back with furious thumbs.
Amelia: Spilled coffee on one. He called me 'Library Girl.' I think my life is a teen movie and I'm the quirky, disaster-prone best friend.
Sophie: OMG DETAILS. Which billionaire? Was it Adrian Vale? I saw his pic on the Westbridge Instagram. He looks like he was carved by angels.
Amelia: Carved by angels, personality crafted by demons. And yes.
Sophie: THIS IS THE MEET-CUTE. THIS IS HOW IT STARTS.
Amelia: This is how a restraining order starts, Soph.
She shoved her phone back in her bag. A meet-cute? More like a meet-disaster. She balled up the ruined sweater, shoving it into her backpack, and was left in a simple t-shirt. It was fine. This was a minor setback. A comedic opening to her story, not the defining tragedy.
She checked her schedule. Her first class, Lit 202: Critical Approaches to Modern Narrative, started in five minutes. It was her sanctuary. Books didn't spill coffee on you. Books didn't have smug, beautiful smiles that made your brain short-circuit.
She found the lecture hall, a steeply tiered room with worn wooden desks, and slipped inside just as the professor was calling the room to order. She scanned the rows for an empty seat, her heart doing a pathetic little flop when she spotted one near the back.
And right next to it, already lounging in his chair as if he owned the place, was Adrian Vale. He hadn't noticed her yet. He was typing something on his phone, a slight frown of concentration on his face.
Of course. Of all the classes, in all the buildings, on all the campuses, he had to walk into hers.
She considered turning around and finding another seat, but the professor—a severe-looking woman with a sharp grey bob—was already peering over her glasses.
"Find a seat, please. We're about to begin."
Trapped. Amelia took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and marched up the steps. She slid into the empty seat next to Adrian without looking at him, pulling out her notebook and a brand-new pen with as much dignity as she could muster.
She felt his gaze shift from his phone to her. There was a beat of silence.
"Well, well," he murmured, his voice a low rumble meant only for her. "Fancy meeting you here, Library Girl."
Amelia kept her eyes fixed straight ahead on the professor. "The name is Amelia," she said, her voice crisp. "And if you call me Library Girl again, the next coffee will be aimed directly at your face."
She risked a glance at him. That infuriating, amused smirk was back, but his eyes held a new, flickering light of interest.
"Amelia," he repeated, as if testing the sound of it. "I'll remember that."
The professor began to speak, outlining the semester's rigorous reading list, but Amelia found it hard to concentrate. She was hyper-aware of the boy sitting next to her, of the faint, clean scent of his cologne, of the space where his arm rested mere inches from hers on the shared desk.
So much for a clean slate. It seemed the universe had handed her a completely different story, one stained with coffee and complicated by blue eyes. And as much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, she was suddenly, terrifyingly, interested in turning the page.