Seatmate

I have exactly 5 hours and 10 minutes to get from Boston to New York City or the professional opportunity of a lifetime disappears. My only travel option? The second to last seat on a discount bus. Across from the bathroom. Wearing last night's clothes (don't ask). All worth it if I can make it in time.

My nerves almost get the best of me, but then there he is, sitting down in the seat next to me. Tall. Friendly smile. Bright indigo streak in his brown hair. The perfect distraction. Turns out he's on his way to reconnect with an old flame. The one that got away. We can both make it on time - just barely - if the traffic keeps flowing.

Playing road-trip games, avoiding calls from his mother, and effortless conversation keeps us from clockwatching . . . until the bus breaks down. And my seatmate turns into my copilot as we wrangle a ride in a car three decades old. And hit all the traffic. And oh, Lord, the detours. And somehow I end up careening cross-town on the handlebars of a Citi Bike carrying a box of kittens. (Yeah, don't ask.)

He's my hero every step of the way . . . and I might be falling for him. But what happens when we reach our final destination? Could my seatmate really be my soulmate?