"Damn it!" Sybil ran down the steps of her family's mansion and into the waiting car. Late as usual. It was raining, of course, and her umbrella was nowhere to be found so she was going to be soaked before she reached the hospital. Her makeup, such as it was, was doing nothing, and let's not get started about the hair!

The driver greeted her with a cheerful "Fine weather for November, aye?" as he held the door open for her. Great! A comedian. She fervently hoped he wasn't a talker. She was so not in the mood!

"Mmmph," she mumbled as she fell onto the seat. She felt another bobby pin slide out of the nest she called a hairdo and cursed under her breath. Sneaking a look in the rear-view mirror as she slid over, she saw a pale face with dark circles under blue eyes and wet ringlets straggling onto a wide forehead. Damn! She was a wreck.

"Oh, shit—it's worse than I thought," she muttered, and heard the driver chuckle.

"If that's your idea of bad, I'd like to see you on a good day," he said helpfully. Oh God, he was a talker. And it was her fault; she'd started it.

"So, he continued, "what brings such a lovely lady out on such an ugly day?"

"I volunteer at the hospital," she tried to keep it short, to discourage him…but nothing doing.

"Well, I kinda figured that, since you ordered the Uber to take you to the hospital."

A smartass. Just what she needed today. "I could've been sick," she told him in her best ward sister voice. "But I'm not." Why couldn't she just shut up? "I'm in Health Care Management at Cambridge. Volunteering as part of my coursework. Right now I'm in pediatrics." She clamped a lid on her mouth and sat back.

"Ah, an angel of mercy. Well, it fits. You look like an angel, for sure. You must make your young patients very happy!"

God, what drivel. She pulled out a compact and tried to repair some of the damage, then snapped it shut. Why bother? The children in pediatrics didn't care what she looked like, as long as she showed up.

"You look very fine," he ventured, seeing the gesture in the mirror.

"Thank you." To get him off the subject, she asked, "Do I detect an Irish accent?"

"Aye, I'm over from Dublin; staying with family in Southie."

"That's nice." Sybil had never been to Southie; had never been far from Beacon Hill, really. Came of being the daughter of the mayor of one of the most iconic cities in America. Until she'd rebelled and gone to school at Cambridge, she'd been sheltered, imprisoned, she thought of it. She'd gone everywhere in a limosine, with security following her around.

But now that Dad's term was up and he was just another rich Bostonian, things had been a bit easier. Now she Uber'd to the hospital. Freedom.

But she'd heard about Southie. The home of working class Irish immigrants, though she heard it was becoming trendy. It would make sense that her driver's relatives lived there.

"My name's Tom." She blinked. She'd forgotten him for a second. "Tom Branson." His lilting voice was lovely, and she relaxed back into the seat. She was beginning to forget her irritation, in spite of herself.

"Sybil Crawley." She watched his eyes widen at her last name, and sighed. She was used to the reaction from her colleagues at the hospital. It came with the territory, she supposed, but she grew tired of being known as "the daughter of the mayor". It got old.

"As in Mayor Crawley?" Now he was smirking.

"What? What is that look for?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm just surprised that a daughter of his Honor the mayor would be volunteering at the hospital. Thought you lot were more into soirées and such."

"Well, that just shows what you know," she said, amused at his description, which was pretty spot on. But then, curiosity won over aggravation. "So, you obviously don't approve of my father or his politics."

"Not really," he said honestly. "Although I think he did his best, according to his lights. I just don't think he understood the real needs of the poor and disenfranchised. He could have done more, is all. I'm sure he's a good man…and a good father. After all, look at you!" His look in the mirror was frankly admiring.

He was rather sweet, really, Sybil thought. And very handsome, with his light brown hair and brilliant blue eyes. And that lopsided smile…

But a bit cocky, too, she decided. A little full of himself, for an Uber driver. Then she smacked herself mentally for her attitude. She sounded like a snob, and it wasn't who she was. He couldn't help it if he had been born into a different class than she. Wasn't that what America was for? To allow those less fortunate to pull themselves up by their bootstraps? After all, not everybody could trace their ancestors back to the Mayflower. She admired him, actually, for getting a job when he was over here to visit relatives.

"So, how long have you been here in Boston?" she asked him.

"Three years."

"Wow, that's quite a long visit!" she exclaimed. "Don't you miss Ireland?"

"Ireland, yes." His eyes sparkled as they met hers in the mirror. "But it's worth it to be here."

"And how long do you think you'll stay?" she asked him, as the car pulled up at the hospital entrance. Sybil realized that she had really enjoyed this ride, and her handsome driver. Maybe she could request him next time. She thought of what her father would say about her hobnobbing with an Uber driver from Ireland, and she realized that she didn't much care.

"Oh, I hope to stay for awhile," he said, as he accepted her credit card. "I'm on scholarship." He winked as he handed her card back, with a business card. "That's my card, with my number should you need it."

He grinned at her. "I'm in my last year at Harvard. Political Law. Someday maybe I'll be Mayor of Boston."