Episode 3: “You wore that on the plane?”
Have you ever had to pack for a yearlong journey through the Amazon Rainforest in a minute and a half?
[soft, sarcastic laugh]
Well, neither have I. But I have had to organize an entire wardrobe full of fashion legends—clothes Anna Wintour has to give you permission to wear—and fit them into less than ten suitcases in a day.
Maybe it sounds completely doable to some of you, but on a scale of tasks ranked by me, with the hardest objective residing at the top, it’d be just below lifting a 100-foot yacht above my head, and just above performing an actual appendectomy without training.
I’ve heard it’s a fairly easy surgery, but I’ve never touched a scalpel. That should give you an idea of what I was dealing with.
Still, it was either get busy packing or get busy converting to the nudist lifestyle. In the interest of protecting the privacy of Hilda and Nancy—my nonsensically named nipples, if you’re wondering—I made fashion happen and tucked my threaded babies away in my bags.
Next stop: Other side of the world.
“Welcome to Sydney, Australia!” the pilot announced through the intercom speakers with what I could swear had turned from the grumble of an overworked American into a boisterous Australian accent overnight.
I just barely heard him over the music in my ears, Amy Winehouse serenading me with Back to Black, but the context clues abounded as I peeked out the window and saw the scenery slide by as the wheels of the plane glided across the tarmac.
I’d officially landed in a country where poisonous spiders and snakes were a daily risk, and in lieu of the chicken, everyone asked why the kangaroo crossed the fucking road.
[laughs]
Okay, so I made that last part up, but whatever. It’d been a whirlwind, and I hadn’t had time to research anything real about my first destination.
I’d literally be on the road for nearly half a year, and the next opportunity to stop home was almost three months away.
This wasn’t the first time I’d traveled for a Scoop assignment. I’d done Paris and Milan and even Rio de Janeiro for fashion-related research, but those hadn’t lasted longer than a few weeks, maybe a month, tops.
This was officially the lengthiest on-location assignment I’d ever had, and as of today, I’m only a little over halfway through it.
[sighs]
But even without the romantic details, the trip itself was ridiculous.
Me, the fashion guru, had no clue what she was going to do with articles about a frigging surfing competition, and the pressure was stressful.
I didn’t think comparing cheese to surfboards, rather than romance, was the kind of twist Vanessa was looking for, so I had to get my shit figured out—and quick.
Not to mention, flying from New York to Australia was no joke.
Even in the somewhat comfortable constraints of business class, the flight had been long. Twenty-five hours, to be exact. It had included a short-layover in Dubai, and by the time we landed, all I could think about was the moment I stepped out of the godforsaken metal tube and put my feet to actual earth.
I sighed in relief when we came to a stop at our gate and the seat belt sign dinged off.
But the relief quickly turned to anxiety when realization set in.
Day one of my assignment, and just about the only things I knew were my name, the designer of my fabulous skirt and blouse, and that the forty-eight hours I’d had to prep weren’t nearly enough time to overcompensate for a lifetime worth of inexperience.
But Allie and, for some unknown reason, Vanessa were convinced I could do it.
Looking back on it now, I have to wonder if the air vents in our conference room had some sort of malfunction that day and accidentally filled the room with carbon monoxide or something.
Lord knows, I’d been close to passing out, and everyone else had acted high.
Premeditated sabotage or some kind or coincidence? I’m still skeptical.
[laughs]
Anyway, a gentle hint of nausea set in as the door opened, and everyone around me stood up to gather their stuff.
Normally, I’m the type of person who gets up and into the aisle as soon as possible, ready to meet the freedom of the open airport on the other side of the jetway.
Of course, for all the reasons listed previously, that day, I wasn’t such an eager beaver.
Instead, I sat drolly, gathering my belongings at a snail’s pace and letting the rows behind me power past like those people who go to the mall to walk.
By the time the passengers had dwindled to the elderly and those needing actual physical assistance, I coached myself into exiting the plane.
The sights and sounds of Sydney’s bustling airport at eight in the morning assaulted my senses in one resounding blow, and I had to hold up a hand against the light for fear I’d vaporize like my ancestors.
[pause]
Vampires, guys. You know? I have really pale skin…
[laughs]
Oh man. Not being able to hear people laugh on the other end of this podcast is a real kick to the—yeah. I think you know where I’m going with this.
[clears throat]
Anyhoo, moving on.
The silver lining to being a fish out of my normal waters was that somehow the gods had seen fit to put me in a small tank first, rather than throwing me right into the ocean. The first stop in Sydney wasn’t for the actual competition itself, but for a big celebration gala that was held at the halfway mark of the men’s championship league.
A gala, guys. Surely there’d be designer wear and overpriced heels, and my foray into the world of surfing would be about the surfers first and the minutiae later.
At least then, I’d have another few days to do some more research before I had to cover actual waves and shit in Bali.
It was a big frigging pipe dream, but a girl could hope nonetheless.
Customs, a near strip search by a woman with flat bangs, and a whole lot of nervous breathing later, there was no turning back.
“Welcome to the unknown,” I muttered to myself. “Hopefully, you won’t screw this up.”
As you can tell, I’m truly gifted at giving personal pep talks.
The journey to baggage claim was long, but with the amount of attention I was paying to my surroundings—i.e., not much—it went quickly.
Allie had sent me an email while I was somewhere over the Atlantic…or the Indian Ocean…or the Pacific.
Hell, I’m not even sure. But I was over water, and there was a lot of it.
My brother knows your flight details, and he will personally be there to pick you up from the airport and bring you to the hotel. You’re staying at the W, and that’s the hotel where the gala will be held, she’d penned like a Girl Scout mom, looking out for her troop.
Clearly going through a bout of premature nesting, she’d gone so far as to leave me a list of numbers.
Ollie. The hotel. Even the Australian version of the Poison Control Center with a little note of in case you get bitten by a spider or something. Followed by, Just kidding! You’ll be fine! And more than that, you’re going to have the time of your life!
Time of my life?
[laughs softly]
I’d worry about living it up as soon as I located her mysterious brother using the vague description she’d provided: Tall, thirty-seven, and brownish hair.
Yeah. Real easy to spot that guy, right?
Frankly, a little too easy. Take me to any location on any day, and I could find you twenty of her supposed brother, and the Sydney airport was no exception.
Hopefully, I thought, Oliver Arsen would be wearing a shirt declaring him as such, working with a better description of me than I had of him, or carrying a very strong resemblance to my best friend.
As it turned out, he didn’t have any of the above. Instead, he did me one better.
After a quick workout grabbing my three extremely heavy Louis Vuitton suitcases off the baggage carousel—they were full of nearly my entire wardrobe, after all—I scanned the area for a familiar face.
In my mind’s eye, I was searching for a much hairier version of Allie. But my mind’s eye might as well have been blind for all the success it had.
Officially alone and waiting, I corralled my luggage—awkwardly, mind you—toward the doors and managed to snag a cart to wheel those heavy fuckers around the massive airport while I searched for my ride.
Under the weight of the load, the balls of my feet started to ache, and regret for my inability to pack light grew rampant.
So what if I didn’t know what I’d feel like three Tuesdays from now? So what if I’m bloated or gain weight or go on the raging blood war period from hell?
I should have left the bulk of my baggage to the emotional load I couldn’t help but carry.
Nevertheless, I was set in my ways.
Hell, I still am. When it comes time to make the journey to France in September to continue the tour, I guarantee I’ll be sporting the same load.
[laughs, pauses, then sighs]
With no other option, I wheeled my cart into the center of it all and searched the massive arrivals area for a spark of recognition.
Fifteen or so tourists sporting matching red shirts grouped up together near belt number four.
A husband and wife grabbed their suitcases and two small children and headed for the pickup area outside.
Two young women hurried out of the doors to stop just outside and light up a cigarette.
And on the opposite side of the room, a crowd of people, made up mostly of giddy women, had gathered around someone. I wasn’t sure who, but their excitement was more than apparent.
My brain started spinning with celebrity thoughts.
Didn’t Margot Robbie live in Australia?
Wasn’t Nicole Kidman an Aussie?
Most importantly, what if it was Chris Hemsworth?
I mean, who wouldn’t want to grab a selfie with Thor?
This girl certainly would. Which, if you’re for some reason listening to this podcast, Chris Hemsworth…I still would. Also, I love you.
[giggles]
Anyway, with visions of Thor’s hammer dancing behind my eyes, I pushed my cart toward the crowd.
By the time I reached them, even more people had shown up for pictures, and I could just barely sneak a glimpse of the person demanding all the hoopla and attention.
I wasn’t shocked by the fact that it was a certified man candy kind of man, and you shouldn’t be either. Slobby Schmoes rarely pull that kind of attention.
Warm, chocolate eyes.
Strong, firm jaw.
A sexy, mischievous smile.
Brown, sandy-colored hair that looked like he’d barely run his fingers through it when he’d gotten out of bed that morning and still managed to make it look good.
Yep…gorgeous. Slap you right in the face, need a double, then triple take, kind of good-looking, undeniably handsome man.
I couldn’t look away, and neither could the crowd.
I watched as he signed autographs and took selfies, and with each fan interaction, it was more than obvious a lack of confidence was the least of his problems.
He was cocky and enigmatic, and dare I say, slightly untouchable.
Before Tiago—before I’d sworn off jerks for good—he was exactly the kind of man I would’ve been drawn to.
Of course, my reasons for telling you all of this would be no more than trite filler if there weren’t more to the story, and I’m betting at least one or two of you realize that already.
“Ladies,” he addressed his crowd of fangirls with a charming little smirk, and a sexy Aussie accent dripped from his tongue like honey. “It was lovely seeing you, but now I have to go.”
The women frowned and ahhed, and one even shouted, “I love you, Ollie!” as he stepped clear of the crowd and fully unveiled himself to me.
That’s right, friends. Ollie.
Allie’s brother, there for me, and fully equipped with a fucking sign, of all things.
He held the white piece of paper between his fingertips as he lifted it from his side.
And in the center…my name in big bold letters. LUCKY WRIGHT.
If you’re currently thinking holy shit, we’re on the same page here.
Although, right then, I was more like holy fuck.
I hadn’t even said two words to him by that point, you guys, and already, I had a bad feeling. Not, like, serial-killer vibes, but stay far, far away from the Australian Adonis kind of warning bells.
Of course, before I could contemplate hauling ass out of the airport and finding reprieve inside a cab, Ollie’s eyes met mine, and it was too late.
“Lucky?”
Dun-dun-dunnn. Trapped.
There was no escaping this.
Either he was better at finding a target based on a brief physical description, or my deer-in-headlights expression gave me away.
“Uh…yeah… That’s me… Hi.”
My smile was brittle as he walked over toward me, the trajectory of my eyes going up, up, up with every step.
I’m not good at measurements, but I knew he had to be at least half a foot taller than me, in heels. To me, five foot six, plus heels, plus a half a foot, equals potato, but maybe you’ve nailed down an exact number thanks to paying better attention in math than I did.
[mumble from producer]
Fine. I’m being told it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of six foot three. Let’s go with that.
“Nice to meet you, Lucky. I’m Oliver, but just call me Ollie.” He held out his hand to greet me, and the instant the warmth of his palm caressed my skin, stupid goose bumps rolled up my arm.
Goose bumps from a simple touch? Yeah, it was dumb. I know it was dumb, but I couldn’t exactly stop my body’s natural reactions, and the guy had just had a damn crowd around him. Give my hormones a break.
“How long have you been standing here?” he asked, and I shrugged.
“Not too long.”
Long enough to know I’d have to strangle Allie when I got back home for not giving me a more adequate warning, but not so long that my feet had been able to actually root into the ground.
He nodded, but as he was nodding, his eyes took inventory of my body. At least, I thought that was what he was doing. The reality was far ruder.
“You wore that on the plane?”
I glanced down at my heels, satin-shimmer Chanel blouse, Prada skirt, and sleek blazer. “Uh…yeah…”
He smirked. “You wore heels and a dress-type-thing on a twenty-plus-hour flight?”
What was that supposed to mean? The circles under my eyes were a little rough, and surely the chignon in my hair had seen better days, but other than that, I still maintain that I looked like a goddamn goddess. I had on vintage Prada, for fuck’s sake.
I narrowed my eyes. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” he said, and his smirk grew wider. “It certainly isn’t a problem if you were expecting to pick up some bloke on the plane for a jaunt in the mile-high club.”
“Excuse me?” I questioned with wide eyes. “Did you just insinuate I’m some sort of slutty floozy?”
“No, I can assure you that’s not what I was saying.” He shook his head on a confident laugh. Which only made me more irritated.
“Then what were you saying, exactly?”
“It’s a little high-maintenance,” he answered without hesitation. “But I’m not the one who had to survive a full day’s travel in stilettos.”
[a soft, incredulous laugh]
First a floozy, then high-maintenance?
Yeah. Our first encounter was off to a brilliant start.
But wait, it gets better…
Because as you might expect, my claws came out.
I glanced down at his stupid flip-flops and moved my gaze up his body, surveying his cargo shorts and perfectly fitted white T-shirt before I stopped at his eyes. “And I take it those god-awful flip-flops and cargo shorts are proper travel attire?”
Bingo, bango, hit him where it hurts, right?
Wrong. The self-assured bastard didn’t even flinch.
“Thongs.”
“Huh?”
“You’re in Australia now, and we call them thongs here,” he explained with a wink.
Ah, yes. Nothing I love more than a man explaining things to me.
If he kept it up, he was going to know what the real meaning of a thong was. Ninja-style, foot up his ass.
[sighs]
It’s disappointing, guys, but he didn’t see me as nearly that tough.
Instead, he grabbed the cart from me without further ado and pushed the damn thing right out the doors.
My only choice in the matter was to follow him blindly, and to do it quickly in my heels.
As I mentioned, however confusingly, he’s tall. And tall equals long-ass strides, and yeah, you see where I’m going with this…
Five minutes later, in the parking garage, he finally stopped in front of what he’ll try to convince you was a vehicle.
What it was, was a deathtrap on wheels. No roof. No windows. Only a wing and a prayer would protect us in a crash.
“This is me.”
I looked over at him in confusion as he shoved my suitcases into the small trunk.
“This is what you drive?”
He had the audacity to laugh at my question. “Sorry to disappoint, but here in Australia we wear thongs and we don’t travel around in limos.”
“I wasn’t expecting a limo,” I spat back.
My love for vintage clothes and designer brands was rooted in nostalgia, little did he know, and expecting a modicum of safety in my mode of travel was far from unreasonable.
As we volleyed back and forth and I told him as much, the fear that I’d get trapped in the thick honey of his powerful looks faded further and further away.
He seemed to be enjoying my discomfort, and magnetic brown eyes or not, I was pretty sure that qualified as jerk-like behavior.
“Get in the car, Lucky,” he said with a little smirk. “And I promise I’ll get you and your precious heels and four suitcases filled with most likely more expensive shit to the hotel in one piece.”
“Three.”
“What?”
“I have three suitcases.”
“Don’t forget the carry-on.” He winked. “So, are you getting in, or are we just gonna stand out here taking inventory of roofs and bags?”
If I hadn’t already started to feel the effects of jet lag, I would’ve turned back for the taxi line right then.
But I was tired and hungry, and a hot shower and a nap sounded like pure heaven.
Without another word, I turned on my heel and reluctantly slid into his death mobile.
Thankfully, the damn thing came with seat belts. I clicked myself in and watched as he hopped into the driver’s seat and turned the engine over with a flick of his wrist.
It came to life, and he revved it a little before reversing out of the parking spot and heading toward the exit.
With his tanned skin and muscular forearms and the wind blowing through his stupid, sexy hair, I couldn’t deny Oliver Arsen was a total Aussie babe.
But he was also a jerk with a capital J.
Off. Limits.