She Overslept And Missed Her Bus, Only To Carpool With A Millionaire Who Would Soon Fall For Her
A Chance Encounter and the Millionaire’s Offer
Marlo Mitchell woke up to the sound of a garbage truck crashing down the street like it was fueled by vengeance. She bolted upright, heart pounding. “No, no, no,” she muttered, snatching her phone off the nightstand. “7:43 a.m. Her bus to the city left at 7:30.”
“I’m dead,” she whispered as she scrambled out of bed.
She threw on jeans and a wrinkled blouse, shoving her feet into mismatched sneakers. She grabbed her tote, half a granola bar, and raced out the door of her tiny rental room above the bakery. The bus was long gone.
Marlo stood on the corner panting, watching the taillights disappear down the hill. She swore under her breath. Her boss at the gallery already had one foot out the door to fire her. Today was her last chance to prove she could handle the new exhibit.
She pulled out her phone to order a ride-share, but it wouldn’t load. There was no Wi-Fi and no balance left. Her stomach dropped. “Great, just perfect.”
“You okay?”
She spun around. A sleek black luxury car, the kind that practically purred instead of idled, had rolled up beside her. The window was down, and a man in a crisp white shirt and dark sunglasses looked at her with a raised brow.
He was ridiculously attractive, with a strong jaw and dark hair pushed back. He had that effortless confidence, like he’d never been late a day in his life.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, stepping back. “Just missed my bus. I’ll figure it out.”
“Where you heading?”
She hesitated. “Down Lexington and 44th.”
He leaned over and popped the passenger door open. “I’m going past there. Hop in.”
Marlo blinked. “What?”
“I’m not a serial killer,” he added, like that made it better. “I just don’t like seeing people stranded. You can say no.”
Her eyes darted to the empty sidewalk. The next bus wouldn’t be for another hour. She’d be fired by then. Her stomach twisted.
“Okay,” she said, before she could talk herself out of it. “Thanks.”
The inside of the car smelled like leather and mint. She buckled in, trying not to touch anything. There was a quiet hum, with jazz playing low on the speakers. He glanced at her again when they stopped at a red light.
“I’m Parker Vale,” he said casually.
“Marlo Mitchell. You always run this late?”
“Marlo Mitchell,” she let out a breathy laugh. “Only on days where I need my job to not fire me.”
“Gallery girl?”
Her head snapped toward him. “How did you—”
“You’ve got paint on your elbow,” he shrugged.
She glanced down at a blue smudge. “Oh, right.”
“You work at the Lexington Gallery?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Yeah. How do you know that?”
“I’ve been there once or twice. You into art?”
“I’m into investing in things that matter.”
She nodded slowly, unsure what that meant, but he didn’t elaborate. He changed the subject instead. “Why don’t you drive?”
“I’m saving up,” she said, not embarrassed, just honest. “New York’s expensive and I’m behind on rent.”
He tilted his head, studying her. “You’re not from here. Small town girl? Moved here 8 months ago, still adjusting?”
“Brave,” he repeated.
“You’re brave or stupid?”
They rode in silence for a few blocks. She noticed the smoothness of the drive and the digital interface. On his wrist was a watch that probably cost more than her student loans.
“Are you sure you’re going past Lexington and 44th?” she asked, suspicion creeping in.
“Nope,” he said, turning the wheel. “I’m late for a meeting in Tribeca, but you looked like you needed the help.”
Her mouth opened. “You’re going completely out of your way.”
“It’s not a crime to do something decent,” he replied.
When he pulled up outside the gallery, she fumbled with her seat belt. “Thank you. Seriously, you saved my job.”
He reached into the console and pulled out a sleek black card. “If you ever need a ride again.”
She stared at it. “Are you a ride-share driver?”
“No. I just think people like you deserve more than missed buses,” he laughed.
She took the card. There was no company name, just his name: Parker Vale. “Thanks,” she said again, stepping out.
“Good luck in there.”
She closed the door and watched him drive off through traffic like it parted for him. By the time she made it home that night, she was exhausted. The exhibit had gone well, and her boss told her she could stay for another month.
She flopped onto her bed and pulled the card from her bag. She ran her fingers over the silver logo. She looked it up on her laptop. Her jaw dropped.
Parker Vale was a millionaire entrepreneur and founder of a private investment firm. He was on Forbes’ 30 Under 30 list with international partnerships and luxury properties. He’d given her a ride like it was nothing.
Her heart raced. She wasn’t sure if she was more shocked, or flattered, or both. Two days later, she missed the bus again due to a power outage that shut off her alarm.
She stood on the same corner, groaning. A horn honked. The black car pulled up. Parker leaned out the window. “You might need to rethink your mornings.”
She laughed, running to the car. “You are not serious!”
“I figured I’d check and bring you coffee.”
She slid into the seat, stunned. There was a latte waiting for her. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“Instinct.”
She looked at him. “You don’t even know me.”
“Not yet,” Parker’s eyes met hers.
Her heart skipped. That week, he drove her three times. Each time, there was a tiny luxury: a croissant, a scarf she mentioned, or a playlist of her favorite band. She told herself not to fall for it, but it was hard.
He never flirted in the usual way. He just listened and remembered things she didn’t recall saying. He asked about her paintings, her dreams, and how she saw the world. He talked about his company like it was a side note.
One morning, he pulled up holding a paper bag. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Lunch for you, Marlo. I figured you skipped breakfast again.”
Inside were sandwiches, fruit, and water. She stared at it, touched. “You don’t have to keep doing this.”
“I know.”
She paused. “Why are you?”
“Because every time you smile, it makes my day better,” he met her eyes.
She blinked, caught off guard. “You’re going to ruin me for normal guys,” she said softly.
“That’s the plan,” he grinned.
The gallery’s front door stuck halfway open from the rain. Marlo shoved it with her shoulder and slipped through. Her hair was damp and her clothes clung to her skin. She was inside and on time, barely.
She caught her reflection in a display case. Her eyeliner was smudged, and her blouse had a faint coffee stain. She tried to blot it with a brochure. “Mitchell,” came her boss’s clipped voice.
“You’re introducing the Adler piece at the press preview this afternoon.”
“I thought Lauren was doing that.”
“She called in sick. You’re up.”
Marlo’s stomach dropped. The Adler exhibit was a massive acquisition of abstract oil work. Any slip-up would be career suicide. “I’ll prep the talking points now,” she said, voice steadier than she felt.
She didn’t have time to think about Parker or how he’d pulled up with an umbrella waiting. She focused on the central Adler piece, a chaotic smear of crimson and slate on canvas. She cleared her throat as the press preview began.
“Thank you all for being here. This piece, titled ‘Collapse in C Minor,’ was painted following Adler’s divorce. You can see the tension…”
A door creaked open at the back. Parker. She nearly lost her train of thought. He wasn’t wearing sunglasses. His eyes were sharp and alert. Why was he here? She finished her talk without stumbling, though her pulse drummed wildly.
