1
“Lady,you’ve got about one minute before I have a full-blown panic attack.”
I glanced in my rearview mirror at the woman behind me—Ms. Last-Minute, as I’d already dubbed her. Every airport shuttle has one: the passenger who tries to squeeze in one last errand before heading to the airport and then expects me to pull a miracle in traffic. She kept glaring at her watch.
Seated beside her was her polar opposite: Mr. Five-Hours-Early. He’d been checking his laminated itinerary since we pulled out of the French Quarter. Tall, thin, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he looked like a librarian who’d just discovered someone returned a book with notes in the margins. In pen.
If stress had a buddy-cop movie, it would be these two.
“You’re both going to make your flights,” I said, easing into the exit lane. “Sir, you’ll have plenty of time to rewrite your keynote for that academic conference in New York, and maybe even find a way to sneak in a Lord of the Rings quote. And ma’am, you’ll get to your gate with three whole minutes to spare. Just enough time to get the coffee stain out of your blazer so you can crush that big Dallas pitch to the regional sales team.”
Mr. Five-Hours-Early sighed and slid his itinerary into a leather folder with surgeon-level precision. “Kathleen,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “you’re probably right. Worrying never helps. Except when your panel’s up against the free lunch.”
Ms. Last-Minute glanced at me in the mirror and gave the tiniest, still-panicking-but-trying smile. “Thanks, Kathleen,” she said.
As we pulled up to the terminal, I hit the button to open the doors. “Alright, folks. If you start to feel anxious at the gate, just give me a call. Here’s my number.” I scribbled it on a couple of pieces of paper. “Have a safe trip and may all your overhead bins be empty.”
Ms. Last-Minute slid a five into my tip jar. “Thank you. You too.”
I wasn’t going anywhere—but sure. Me too.
Mr. Five-Hours-Early surprised me. Just before stepping off, he turned back and handed me a twenty. “This is for you,” he said, smiling. “Thanks for helping calm me down. A little kindness goes a long way.”
I tucked it into the jar and gave him a salute. “So does caffeine. Good luck out there.”
As they hustled toward the entrance, I felt a small surge of pride. Driving a shuttle to the New Orleans airport wasn’t exactly my dream job, but it paid the bills, came with housing, and gave me a chance to chip away at my debt. Plus, I enjoyed calming down stressed travelers. There was something satisfying about turning someone’s chaotic morning into a manageable one.
But I was relieved that my eight-hour day, which started at 4 a.m., was almost over. Another shift down, another small step toward getting out of debt. But just as I was about to pull away to drive the shuttle van back to headquarters, it happened.
Crunch.
The unmistakable sound of metal meeting metal. I glanced out the window and saw a sleek black limo very intimately acquainted with the front end of my shuttle. Great. Just what I needed at the end of my workday. My heart sank as I threw the van into park and stepped out, a dull ache settling in my chest. What a mess. This would extend my day by a few more hours with mountains of paperwork.
The limo driver was the first to emerge. He was an older man with silver hair. Slowly, he unfolded a walker from the front seat and took his time navigating around the limo, inspecting the back bumper. “Would you look at this?”
But something tugged at the back of my mind. His posture wasn’t hunched in the way people who truly rely on walkers moved. His grip on it was light, almost casual. And when he bent to examine the fender, his knees flexed with ease. There was no strain, no hesitation.
Weird.Maybe adrenaline made you flexible?
Or maybe I was imagining things.
Just then, the back door of the limo swung open. Dressed in a tailored suit that looked like it cost more than my yearly salary, the passenger stepped out, wearing the kind of expression that could only be described as “seriously annoyed.” His thick brown hair was perfectly tousled, as if he’d just stepped off a movie set rather than out of a wrecked limo. His eyes—dark, intense, and now locked on me—radiated the unmistakable look of someone whose day had just gone from bad to worse.
As he approached, I could feel his gaze sweep over me, taking in my windblown hair and the grease smudge on my cheek. Normally, I’d have my long blonde hair pulled back neatly, but this morning had been a mad rush, and now I was wishing I’d taken those extra thirty seconds. He was definitely not the kind of guy who appreciated the “just rolled out of bed” look.
Limo Guy brushed past the driver, who was still steadying himself on his walker. “I don’t have time to wait around for the cops,” he snapped. “I’ve got an important appointment downtown.”
Important appointment? Of course, he did. Probably to pick up another three-piece suit or scold an intern for not polishing his shoes correctly. The driver, still calm, looked at him apologetically. “Sir, we can call another vehicle from the company, but it’s going to take a bit to get through the traffic.”
Limo Guy, visibly irritated, shook his head and yanked out his phone. As he pulled four sleek, designer bags from the trunk—because of course he had four—he barked into his cell phone, “I need a driver around the clock. Honestly, I should’ve had a helicopter waiting. This is inefficient!”
Oooh, somebody’s getting fired for this,I thought, watching the poor guy on the other end of that call probably question every life choice that led to this moment.
The driver glanced at the mountain of luggage and then at me, his expression desperate. “I’m afraid I can’t be much help, sir. But…” He turned to me. “Ma’am, could you possibly walk him to the parking garage? There’s another limo waiting there. I’d do it myself, but as you can see…” He gestured to his walker.
I couldn’t believe this was how my day was ending. “Sure, I’ll help.”
“Great,” Limo Guy muttered, speed-walking toward the parking lot like someone had lit his designer shoes on fire. He had two bags. I grabbed the other two and hustled to catch up, my legs doing double time to match his runway-model stride.
