Chapter Text
If JFK is a post-apocalyptic wasteland where manners and dreams went to die, LAX is simply a clusterfuck. Raven Fletcher isn’t stupid enough to mean-mug the smarmy-looking TSA agent at the end of the line, not exactly, but the smile in place on her face is about as gruesome as Heath Ledger’s Joker. She had the whole system down pat by now– plastic bag of toiletries, no belt, no hat, no jacket, no sunglasses, shoes that could easily be slipped off and on, no electronics and items in the pockets– but the whole process is a drag, anyway. And of course, they still always gave her crap, and this time is no exception.
“What were you doing in LA?”
“Meeting up with some clients in the industry, catching up, making plans for New York Fashion Week.”
“So you live in New York, then?”
“Yeah. I thought it says so on my license.” And moreover, she certainly didn’t sound like a Californian, now did she?
The TSA agent gives her a warning look; her sass is clearly not appreciated, and undoubtedly he’d use it as an excuse to make her suffer in the next five to ten minutes and probably go through every last bit of her bags, down to counting how many tampons she stashed in and probably testing her makeup wipes to ensure that nothing was radioactive. Raven bites her tongue and tries not to roll her eyes as he beckons over a female officer to pat her down even as he paws through all her belongings. He shakes out a Dior dress that’s tucked into her garment bag that’s likely worth more than the X-ray machine that the bag just passed through, and Raven wants to ask that he change his damn gloves first, but at this rate, if he goes any slower, she’d miss her connection. Sunny weather or not, she’d be damned if she got stuck in LA for another day.
Finally, the ordeal comes to an end, which leaves her roughly half an hour to get from one end of the airport to the other on four-inch Louboutins. Raven has no problem with mowing through crowds– sharp elbows and the aggressive New Yorker walk does wonders– but to have to do so just to get to her gate in time is aggravating when it was certainly not her fault that the security check took so long. She certainly couldn’t just crumple up the damned Dior and stuff it back into the garment bag– she had a client dinner right after getting back in town, and on no planet did Raven Fletcher appear at such events anything less than perfectly dressed and groomed.
There’s the moving walkway up ahead, and she strides on, a woman on a mission, long legs eating up the length of the conveyor. Raven is a petite woman, five-foot-four before the stiletto heels and too short for the modeling work that she immerses herself in dealing with on a daily basis, but she’s leggy, and can walk, jog and possibly do step aerobics in heels with the best of them. She steps off at the end of the moving walkway, leading with her shoulders, and smacks painfully into a solid male chest.
“I’m so sorry. Are you all right, miss?” A pair of big hands wrap around her elbows and pull her up, and had she landed any harder, she probably would have broken a thousand-dollar heel, and perhaps an ankle. Raven looks up from legs clad in casual gray chinos to a torso in blue tweed, with brown elbow patches, up into an almost-unforgivably handsome face, all golden California tan and tousled, sun-bleached blond hair, wearing horn-rimmed glasses over his baby blues. And… headphones. Of course. Because it would certainly be too much to ask for a man to be too perfect, so this particular specimen had to be moseying through the airport deaf to his surroundings like an oblivious moron.
“I would be better if you were watching where you were going, but forget about it.” She bypasses the hand he holds out to help her up, and snags both her garment bag and her briefcase. Her ankle gives her a twinge as she stands up, but she stalks off without a backward glance. If she hurried, she’d have just enough time to pop into the Starbucks by her gate for a quad venti iced macchiato to wash down the Excedrin before getting on the plane.
The boarding process, after she reaches her gate, and where someone else might have passed their time sleeping or watching a movie or two on the five-hour flight, Raven opens her briefcase after the plane reaches cruising altitude to organize her files for the upcoming client dinner. Not that there is much to do, really, because Morgan Austen, even at age seventeen, didn’t exactly require much of an introduction. Blonde and willowy and charming and self-assured, the girl’s celebrity background might have gotten her in the door, but she’d certainly lived up to all the hype. Only too often were the celebrity actor-model types unforgivably uppity and spoiled, and while a small, petty part of Raven enjoyed putting them in their place as needed, it always came as a pleasant surprise when someone didn’t have to get told off for their own good.
Her heart gives a pitter-patter, though, when she reaches inside the bag and feels, underneath her manicured fingertips, a bunch of manila folders rather than the sleek leather portfolio that should be contained in that compartment. Cautiously, she draws out the papers, then only barely manages to avoid swearing loudly and noticeably in the airplane cabin.
“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me. This is a joke. A really bad joke.”
In place of the carefully-curated and prepped collection of headshots and polaroids of Morgan Austen is a collection of lab reports, all with the header of ‘153BH, UCLA/Huntley’. Raven has exactly zero interest in the subject of Nucleotide Metabolism, and the worst part about it is the fact that she has a whole three and a half hours before the plane lands and she can even get on her phone to do something about this mishap.
It’s the longest three and a half hours of her life, feels like, and she pulls out her cell phone almost before the flight attendants turn off the seatbelt sign, calls the agency to postpone the dinner with the rep from Michael Kors.
“Yeah, there’s been a problem with my bag. Stupid LAX. Can you just… tell them my flight was delayed, or something? They’ll be a-o-fucking-kay because they’re getting Morgan Austen to walk their damn show in a month and it’ll be the biggest thing to happen to them since dude designed Michelle Obama’s official portrait dress. Thanks, Luna. You’re a whole bag of organic non-GMO peaches. And… someone’s calling, and it’s a 310 area code, so I’m going to let you go.”
She recognizes the area code as Los Angeles, of course, and expects that it’s some minion from some customer service desk in LAX reporting that they’d found her bag, but the voice which comes through is male and sounds oddly familiar, with that faint Calfornian drawl. “Am I speaking to Ms. Raven Fletcher?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“My name is Jude Huntley, and we bumped into each other at the airport? I seem to have your work bag rather than mine.” The tone is summery-smooth and apologetic, the cadence quick yet lacking the almost-harsh briskness of Manhattan. “It’s entirely my fault, and I’m going to get your bag back to you, but could you tell me where you’d like to pick it up?”
“Well, if you can’t tell, I’m kinda on the opposite coast to you now, buddy. Elite Models, New York, New York. We’re on 5th Avenue.” He doesn’t seem at all fazed by her slightly snotty tone, which takes the wind out of her sails, just a little. “Look, pal, if you want to send off my bag to New York, that’d be great. I can do the same with yours. UCLA, right? At least it’s summertime. Hopefully school’s out for you. Shitty time for me to lose my bag because summer’s prime time for campaigns, but it’s not like my stuff can just magically appear overnight.” All around her, people are rising up from their seats, and Raven scowls at nothing in particular. “I gotta get off the plane. Look, since you clearly got my number from my card, you can get the address, too. I’ll get your bag back to you as soon as I can.”
She hangs up, and seethes from the gate all the way to the taxi stand and then all the way to her apartment, before kicking off the heels and unapologetically ordering pizza delivery, to be consumed with wine while soaking in the tub. After the day she’d had, it was the least she deserved.
**
Raven arrives at the agency at eight o’clock sharp the next morning, with the briefcase-that-is-not-hers in one hand, a giant to-go cup of coffee in the other, and spends the first hour of her day making a phone call to the reps at Michael Kors to explain her bag mishap and reschedule the dinner meeting. Thankfully, Morgan Austen’s name is enough to negate any wrath which might have been incurred at the inconvenience, and, crisis averted, she’s just about ready to schedule a conference call– with a talent scout out in BFE, Cornfields, Small-town USA somewhere-or-another– when her assistant Phoebe knocks on the door. The diminuitive brunette has a peculiar look in her beady eyes.
“Someone’s here to see you. No appointment. Great face but I doubt he’s a model, unless he’s doing some sort of ad for Geek Chic. Says his name is Jude. Do you know a Jude? I didn’t think you knew a Jude, though this guy’s sort of got the hot younger Jude Law thing going on so…”
Raven’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. She’s only made the acquaintance of one individual by that name, and certainly Phoebe is wrong. There is no freaking way that the man from the airport in Los Angeles was actually in New York at this very second. She waves in a vague manner at Phoebe, who takes it as assent to let him in, and then her jaw drops. It’s the man from the airport, all right. Still wearing his tweed jacket and his horn-rimmed glasses, but now sporting dark-blond five-o’clock shadow like gold dust smudged against his chiseled jaw and deep shadows under those blue eyes. But his lips quirk into a smile when he sees her, and he holds out her bag, like an olive branch.
“You asked for it to be overnighted, didn’t you? I took the red-eye over.”
“But— but—why?” Flying a red-eye from coast to coast is the worst, and doing so on standby just seemed like her own idea of Hell on Earth. “You could’ve just dropped it off at a FedEx. I…” She had barely been civil to him on the phone, and definitely was on the wrong side of rude when they’d bumped into each other at the airport. Under no circumstance could Raven see a reason for a man– especially one who looked as though he had a job and a life well on the other side of the country– to drop everything just to bring her her bag back in person.
But rather than give her a hard time, the man named Jude smiles, and it’s a great smile, with a dimple in both cheeks and in the chin. Geek chic indeed… “Well, I need those lab reports back, too. Summer class. I have a commitment to my students to get it back to them by Friday, and they’re kind of time consuming to grade. Call it an impulse, I guess.” He’s still holding out her bag, and this time she takes it, and belatedly hands him his own. “Anyway, let’s start over again. My name is Jude Huntley, and I’m an assistant professor at UCLA’s Chemistry department.”
“Raven Fletcher. I’m an agent here at Elite Models. Nice to meet you.” Two almost-identical bags switch hands, just before his fingers close around hers, and the touch is warm and sharp with the brush of static electricity. Raven’s fairly sure that her spine is, metaphorically speaking, stainless steel. And yet a shiver works its way up and down as he holds on for just a moment too long, and a decidedly unfamiliar warmth creeps up into her cheeks as he smiles at her again.
“The pleasure is definitely all mine.”