by Monroe, Max
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?”
&n
bsp; “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.
* * *
The first twenty minutes of our drive had gone about as well as expected.
The absence of a roof and windows had created some sort of wind vortex, and I’d spent the majority of the ride fighting to keep from eating my own hair.
Not to mention, Ollie had made a point to ask me a million questions about my life in New York and how long I’d been friends with Allie and what my job was like at Scoop.
And I’d deferred each and every question with short, simple answers. “I live in an apartment in SoHo” and “I’ve known Allie since college” and “I’m a writer.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be friendly, but I can only turn on so much civility for people who start their first encounter with me by calling me high-maintenance. Only my friends of years can do that kind of thing, and even then, I’m not above a little harmless retribution.
If you don’t believe me, ask Allie how many times I’ve switched out the sugar for salt in her coffee.
Moreover, lest we forget, in this case, I’d also just gotten off a twenty-five-hour flight. I was tired, and the effects of jet lag had already started to seep from my pores like a bad case of body odor.
I’m not saying I’m blameless. I can recognize, looking back on it, that my bitchy retorts probably weren’t a great encouragement to treat me with respect.
But I just wanted to rest my eyes for the duration of the drive, drag my carcass to the hotel room, and fall face first into my bed.
Ollie had other plans, and they were the opposite of quiet.
Ugh.
[sighs]
How on earth do I properly describe the torture that was his twenty-minute, one-man concert to the soundtrack of Aerosmith?
He was off-key and out of tune and at the top of his lungs, and I silently prayed for the commute to go quicker.
It wasn’t until his playlist hit Steven Tyler song number four that he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “You like Aerosmith?”
I couldn’t hold back at that point. Seriously, could not. Honestly, I blame the small stream of blood running from my ears for my bad-mannered response.
“I like Aerosmith singing Aerosmith.”
He quirked a brow. “But not me?”
“Do you really want me to answer that question?”
A hearty chuckle left his full lips.
In the interest of full disclosure, Ollie’s lips are…nice. Even in my bitter, weary state, I wasn’t above noticing.
I could definitely be more explicit with my description, but I’m not entirely sure I could do it without turning this thing pornographic.
[pauses and clears throat]
Anyway, being in the first, fully committed stages of jerk rehab as I was, I tried to savor the view of the open road and Australia’s version of an early morning rather than drooling over his face, but Ollie just wouldn’t shut up.
Rest wasn’t on his agenda at all, but apparently, clearing the air was.
“I think it’s safe to say we’re going to be spending a lot of time together over the next several months, and you should know I’m the kind of bloke who doesn’t beat around the bush and rarely takes offense at anything,” he said and flipped on his blinker as he switched lanes and passed a semitruck. “So, for the sake of being real, when I ask you something, don’t feel like you need to sugarcoat your response.”
Finally, a break. Niceties were the real energy zapper of a conversation, and if he was going to play it blunt, so could I.
In fact, I didn’t waste any time.
“You’re a terrible singer.”
His a
nswering grin was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen in my life. Hands down, to this day, even I can admit it.
I know I was in jerk rehab, but hey, addicts have cravings.
And now I knew how to get a fix.
“And, speaking of expectations,” my traitorous compulsion pushed. “You’re the complete opposite of what I’d expect a CEO of a big international surfing company to be like.”
He smiled again, and I got a little higher.
[sighs]
Oy, guys. Can you tell how much trouble I was in?
“You were probably expecting some uptight guy in a high-priced suit and shit, no?”
“Whatever I was expecting, I can tell you it wasn’t this.”
“This meaning a roguishly handsome and charming specimen of a man?” he asked, without giving me time to agree or contradict. “I can understand where your confusion might lie.”
Suddenly, I understood why his car didn’t have a roof. He needed the extra space for his big, arrogant head.
“This meaning someone who doesn’t pick up clients in flip-flops.”
“Pretty sure you mean thongs, yeah?”
Unwilling to give in, I rolled my eyes. I don’t know that he even noticed.
“Well, Lucky, it’s safe to say we do things a little different down under,” he said. “I’m surprised Allie didn’t prep you for the difference between a good ole Aussie bloke compared with an uptight American.”
“Americans aren’t uptight.”
He glanced down at my shoes, and his eyes worked their way up to my face, taking careful inventory of my current attire. Again. “You’re not doing a very good job of pleading your case.”
“Just because I don’t shuffle around in thongs and cargo shorts doesn’t mean I’m uptight,” I retorted. “So, I like to dress cute, even on long flights. There’s no crime in wanting to feel good in what I’m wearing.”
My mother always taught me to dress the way you want to feel.