“Don’t offer!” Guitar Guy said frantically. “We don’t have time for chivalry.”
“I’ve got it,” Harper said into the dark. She emerged from the van like popcorn from a hot pan, grabbed her tote, and left her useless umbrella. She ran to the back and yanked her bag free of its wedge, hit the close button, and sprinted down the street, her tote bag and suitcase banging hard against her leg, rain slipping in her collar.
She reached the depot just as the Megabus was preparing to pull out. She threw herself into the opening before the driver could close the door. “I’m here!” she shouted triumphantly and handed over a soggy paper ticket. He scanned the bar code. “Your seat is on top.”
Which had seemed like a great idea when she’d booked it. She’d imagined a leisurely drive high above the highway. Harper hauled herself up the stairs, dragging her bags, her ankle booties squishing with each step, her coat dripping. People grimaced and shot her dark looks as she tried to fit down the narrow aisle. “Sorry,” she muttered more than once. “So sorry.”
Her seat was near the back, because she had also thought that would be more relaxing. And she’d booked a window seat and now had the problem of a large woman as a seat mate who did not appear to want to stand to let her pass.
“Excuse me.” Harper wiped a rivulet of rain from the side of her face. “That’s my seat.”
The woman looked at the seat, then at Harper. She tried to scooch her knees to one side. “Just climb over.”
Was she kidding? Harper hadn’t been on a jungle gym in close to thirty years. “I don’t think I can.” She winced apologetically and, with her head, indicated her bags.
This irritated the woman. She sighed loudly, grabbed onto the seat in front of her, and hauled herself up. She stepped into the aisle, knocking into Harper when she did.
Harper moved quickly. She shoved both bags onto the floorboard and fell into her seat. She managed to partially wedge one bag underneath her, feet propped on top of it. But the tote wouldn’t fit, so she had to haul it up and hold it in her lap. The lady cast a look of disapproval over her, then climbed back into her seat, buckled herself in, and took the middle armrest.
Dammit. Now Harper had to pee. But she leaned back, resting against the headrest, and closed her eyes.
She should have waited until tomorrow. It wasn’t as if her parents were eagerly anticipating her arrival. In fact, when Harper had texted her dad to tell him she’d been held up and couldn’t come until tonight, he’d responded with one word. Great! When she texted them earlier and gave a time to expect her, her mother replied, We’ve gone out to dinner. You know where the key is.
Or maybe she should have left when she’d planned. Olivia thought Soren was amazingly good at always finding a last-minute emergency only Harper could handle.
“Why do you let him do you like that?” Olivia had asked her, annoyed that Harper was arriving a full day later than she’d promised. Olivia didn’t understand how busy Harper’s life had become since moving to Austin four years ago. She’d known when she accepted the position that it would be crazy and sacrifices would need to be made. Not that she minded—she had a goal and she was willing to work for it, which she’d tried to explain to Olivia.
“A goal shouldn’t consume your life,” Olivia had said, pouting.
Maybe. But it was her life to consume, and setting goals and achieving them made her happy. It blocked out all the other noise in life—every day was focused. Harper had ambition. She’d worked her way up at StreetSweets, Inc., and she planned on going the distance—chief executive officer. All she had to do was convince Soren he could leave the running of the company to her. She was miles from that, but she was gaining ground.
StreetSweets franchised food trucks specializing in coffee and pastries, like a Starbucks on wheels. But in the past couple of years, Soren had ventured into the fixed restaurant side of the ledger and had built three upscale coffeehouses in Austin.
Harper had started with the company six years ago. After graduating from Rice University with a degree in social sciences and business administration, she’d held a series of assistant management jobs, then had lucked into the position of district manager overseeing the StreetSweets food trucks in Houston. Her job had been to place the trailers for commerce, move them as necessary, and most important, turn a profit. She’d done more than turn a profit—the demand for StreetSweets food trucks was so good that Soren eventually added two more to the Houston fleet.
And then he’d offered her a job as vice president of development in Austin, a totally manufactured title to entice her to move. It had worked.
They’d opened two Deja Brew Coffeehouses in Austin, but the flagship Deja Brew was slated to open after the holidays. It was on South Congress, near a stretch of the avenue that saw heavy tourist traffic. With the successful opening and launch of this store, the plan was to expand nationwide. Harper wanted in on that expansion. She wanted to run this company. Her first step was to make herself indispensable. She was always the first one to volunteer, always the one who went above and beyond what was expected. Which was why she’d volunteered to plan the grand opening of their flagship store. Soren had wanted to hire an event planner, but Harper convinced him they didn’t need to spend that money.
“But why?” Olivia had asked once. “Why is it such a big deal to be in upper management?”
“I don’t know,” Harper said. “More money. More responsibility. More opportunities to create new things.”
“Less free time. Less opportunity to date. Less time with your friends,” Olivia had countered. “Don’t you want a life? Don’t you want to get married or have kids or travel?”
Olivia was still mad that Harper had bailed on the girls’ trip to Cabo San Lucas last fall. Olivia was a journalist for the Houston Chronicle, so it wasn’t like she didn’t work long hours, too. But what she did not have was the drive to climb like Harper did. Olivia’s philosophy was to work to live, not the other way around.
Harper would concede that her goals were always ambitious and sometimes she worked so hard to meet them that she did miss out on life. She wanted a dog but had no time for one, so she’d settled for walking rescue dogs on the weekends at the Austin Canine Coalition. That’s where she’d met Bob, the crankiest bulldog in America. She wouldn’t mind a boyfriend, but with her hours, finding someone to date was not going well. And she was tired all the time. Like now. And with the gentle rocking of the bus as it pulled out of Austin, she dozed off.
She was awakened when the woman next to her pushed Harper’s tote bag off the armrest. “Sorry,” Harper said groggily, and righted herself and the bag. She dragged her fingers through hair that was still damp from the rain, then shifted her gaze out the window. She’d more than dozed off—they were close to an hour out of town, and the rain had turned to mist.