Unconditional (3 page)

With heat flooding my face yet again, I hightailed it out of there as quick as I could.

I tried not to look around for the mysterious Mr. Jones and the man in the blue suit, but I did. How could I not? There was no sign of them anywhere.

That was probably a good thing. My first few hours in Australia hadn’t exactly gone to plan, and truth be told, if I
did
see Mr. Jones again, I’d probably make a fool of myself and ask him to kiss me again. It had been that good. I still had the tingles and a fluttering belly to prove it. Whoever he was, he was gone.

Yay, life back to normal for me. Well, as normal as it could be given I was on the other side of the world from everything I know and love, about to spend ten weeks in the country of my father’s birth without a single person I could call a friend and—

Okay, let’s stop right there and get off the self-pity bus. I was here, in Australia, about to start the most amazing experience of my student life. No need for dramatics.

Hitching up my bag, I took a deep breath, scanned the crowd one more time for any sight of Mr. Broad Shoulders and then headed out the exit. I had to catch a taxi to Sydney University, my home for the next five weeks.

Two steps outside, I was almost knocked over by a man running with a camera in his hand.

“Hey!” I protested, staggering for balance. It’s never fun to lose your balance, especially when the disease fighting to control your body likes to throw you off balance just for shits and giggles.

The running man didn’t slow down. Nor did the one following him. Or the one after that.

Suddenly, it dawned on me there were lots of hurrying, rushing, sprinting men with cameras, all heading toward a stretch black limousine parked at the curb a few feet away. A limo Mr. Broad Shoulders, AKA Mr. Jones, AKA my mysterious kisser, was now climbing into, the man in the blue suit guiding his head as he glared at the approaching wave of frenzied photographers.

Confused by it all, I frowned. Who the hell
was
this guy to deserve so much manic attention?

Camera flashes detonated around the limo. The photographers shouted. Most of the calls sounded like, “Oi, Raphael.” Which couldn’t be correct. Who had a name like Raphael these days? The crowd around me surged forward, sirens wailed from somewhere nearby and then, in a moment of surreal calm amongst it all, a gap in the madness formed between me and the limo, and Mr. Broad Shoulders’s stare met mine.

Met.

Melded with.

Fixed on.

Pinned.

Our gazes held, and in that gaze, an entire conversation took place:

I liked kissing you.

I liked being kissed by you.

Shame it had to end.

Ditto.

And then the man in the dark-blue suit shoved the photographers backward with ungentle care and slammed the limo door shut, ending my ocular correspondence with Mr. Broad Shoulders just like that.

I blinked.

The limo engine roared, the man in the blue suit hurled some rather unpleasant words at the horde and then pulled open the front passenger door and disappeared into the cabin.

A chorus of boos rose from the paparazzi—it’s safe to assume that’s what they were—although I still didn’t know who they were photographing. Someone famous, obviously.

Someone famous who’d kissed me. In the men’s restroom, no less.

I tracked the limo’s path as it sped past me and everyone else on the sidewalk, my tummy twisting and knotting and fluttering and generally being all manner of unsettled. It wasn’t until the limousine vanished around the sweeping bend a few yards away from the terminal that I finally found my brain and grabbed the photographer nearest to me.

“Who was that?” I asked the sneering man trying to disengage my grip on his wrist.

“In the limo?” The photographer tossed a nod over his shoulder, as if the limo and its mysterious passenger were still there.

“Yes,” I answered, trying not to sound agitated. Who else would I be talking about?

“You don’t know?”

I shook my head.

“That was Raphael Jones.” The man smirked.

“Who—”

But before I could finish asking who Raphael Jones was, the photographer had shaken off my hold and was hurrying away, looking at the back of his camera as he did so.

I stood and watched the dispersing photographers and crowd, racking my brain to find any clue as to why the name should mean anything worthy of such frenzied excitement.

Nothing.

I shrugged. “Must be an Australian celebrity.”

Deciding to Google the guy when I finally made it to my on-campus accommodation (my iPhone wasn’t talking to the Australian network yet, damn it), I made my way to the first available cab, climbed into the back and gave the driver the address I’d be staying at while I was a student of the University of Sydney.

The memory of Raphael Jones’s kiss sent a delicious little thrill through me and I wriggled deeper into my seat. So I’d been kissed by an Australian celebrity not even a few hours into the country. Not bad for a college dork from Plenty, Ohio, even if I do say so myself. It kind of made up for the otherwise dismal start to my adventure. Pity I was never going to see him again or I’d show him how an American girl did things.

Okay, maybe not, given how much of a twitchy, emotional wreck I am, but a girl can kick ass in her fantasies, can’t she? It’s not like I
was
going to see him again. Australia’s a big country, after all.

Right?

On Campus

The first surprise was I had a room to myself. I’m not sure why, but I thought I was going to be sharing. When I arrived at Mackellar House, one of the on-campus dorms at the University of Sydney and my home for the first half of my time in Australia, the very perky, chirpy and all-round friendly foreign student liaison officer, Heather Renner, met me at the bottom of the front steps. Heather was taller than me—I’m only five foot four—with long red hair that fell about her face in a mass of tight curls and made her look like a Pixar heroine. She grinned and hugged me and talked at five miles a minute. To be honest, I had trouble keeping up.

Our conversation went something like this.

Heather: “Are you Maci Rowling?”

Me: (opens mouth)

Heather: “You are, aren’t you? Welcome to Australia. What do you think so far? No, don’t tell me, you’ve only been in the country for a few hours, as if you’ve made up your mind yet. Bet it’s different from Plenty. I Googled Plenty this morning when I got the job of greeting you. It’s a small place, isn’t it?”

Me: (mouth still open)

Heather: “Looks lovely. You’ll find Sydney lovely as well. Well, certain parts of Sydney. The part you’ll spend most of your time at. Have you seen much of the uni yet? Oh, when I say ‘uni’, I mean the university. Did you know that? I have a friend in the States and she keeps telling me she can hardly understand a word I say. Can you understand me?”

Me: (shuts mouth)

Heather: “Am I talking too fast? I talk fast, I know. Can you understand my accent? Anyways, I’m going to show you to your room and let you settle in. You’ve arrived during O Week, so be ready to party. Oh shit, I should tell you what O Week is, shouldn’t I? O Week is basically a party for all the new students. O. Orientation. Get it?”

Me: (opens mouth again)

Heather: “Mackellar House has its own O Week party tonight so be prepared. Maybe you should get some sleep beforehand. Are you jet-lagged? You look jet-lagged. C’mon, I’ll take you to your room. I arranged a welcome picnic basket for you, filled with Aussie stuff. Watch out for the Vegemite. And the toaster in your room will set off the smoke detectors if you’re not careful. Maybe better to have pale toast. Do you like toast?”

Me: (mouth still open)

Heather: “God, listen to me. Carrying on when all you probably want to do is have a shower. The communal amenities here are really good. But be warned, they really mean communal. It’s a progressive thing Mackellar House is trying out. Boys and girls. No one’s complained so far but boy, did it freak me out the first time a guy came in for a shower while I was cleaning my teeth. But then, I grew up with sisters. No boys in my family except my dad. Hey, your hand is trembling. Are you okay?”

Me: (shuts mouth)

See what I mean? Perky and friendly. And talkative. Damn. When she pointed out my left hand was trembling, I knew it was time to crash in my room. I was shaking. I could feel it deep in my body. A quaking beyond my control. It happens when I’m tried. Or stressed. Of which I was both. Excited, but tired and stressed. And still slightly obsessing over my kiss in the bathroom from the mysterious, hotter-than-hot Australian celebrity.

So while I really wanted a shower, what I needed was the chance to sit and be calm and still and take my meds (I may have missed one or two mid-flight, now that I think about it).

I smiled at Heather, thanked her for the lovely welcome, passed off my trembling as jet lag and asked to be shown my new digs.

“Absolutely,” gushed Heather, obviously not worried that I was—in the nicest way possible—shutting her down. “Follow me.”

She damn near pirouetted on the spot and then skipped up the stairs of Mackellar House.

I followed. It occurred to me Heather hadn’t asked about my luggage, or lack thereof. Curious. Or maybe college students in Australia—or uni students, as they were called over here—were the same as college students back home—free of common sense in the face of impending responsibility.

The life of a graduate student is a strange mix of adult decisions and teenage angst and irresponsibility. On one hand, you’re in your twenties now. You’re legally an adult. You have to decide all on your lonesome what classes to take, what time to eat breakfast, what time is curfew. On the other hand, you still need to answer to teachers, still need to justify why you didn’t hand in your homework—‘my computer crashed’ really didn’t cut it in high school, so it sure as shit wasn’t going to pass at college—and are still under the merciless control of hormones way more powerful than your brain.

Weird, huh?

Chatting the whole way, Heather led me through Mackellar House. She introduced me to everyone we passed. “Hey, this is Maci Rowling. She’s the environmental student from the U.S. Be nice to her, ’kay?” And then she whispered tidbits about them as we moved farther away. “She’s failing English Lit. He’s spent the last five nights drunk. She’s trying to seduce her History professor.”

By the time we made it to my room, on the third floor at the end of the hallway, my head was spinning. But in a good way. Apart from the accents, I could have been back home in Plenty. Uni life seemed very similar to college life—a group of young adults flexing their independence after years of living under their parents’ thumbs. In other words, chaos.

With a flourish, Heather pulled a key from her pocket and handed it to me. “Your key. Now remember, wonky toaster, communal showers and loos. Your uni info is on the bed, along with your welcome basket. Vegemite should only be smeared on lightly, not slathered on thickly.
Smear
, not slather. There’s milk in the fridge if you want a cuppa. That’s a cup of tea, if you didn’t know. Do you drink tea? Oh, and don’t forget that party tonight I mentioned earlier. Nine p.m. in the common room downstairs. The theme is underwear, which means you’re going to be prancing around in your undies and bra for the night. How cool does that sound?”

And with that, Heather—my welcoming guide to the University of Sydney—skipped away. Seriously. She skipped.

Wow.

I watched her go, having a strange Dorothy in Oz moment, and then turned back to my room.

My
room.

Not mine and so-and-so’s name’s room. My room.

Alone. I had a room all to myself.

It was nice.

Small and uncluttered with a single bed on one side and a desk, mini fridge, flat-screen television and armchair on the other. In between was a large window framed by a sheer blue curtain currently dancing on the warm summer breeze wafting through it.

As I said, nice.

I took a step in, dropped my carry-on at my feet and drew a deep, slow breath. And backed up that step when I heard someone behind me shout, “Oi, Jones! You going tonight?”

A guy—a rather hot-looking guy, I have to admit—was leaning halfway out of the room three doors down from mine, hanging from the doorjamb by his fingers, staring at the closed door opposite me.

I frowned. For some reason, my heart beat faster.

The rather hot-looking guy flicked me a grin and a wink. “G’day. You the Yank?”

I blinked. Before I could answer, the sound of the door opposite me being opened snagged my attention.

I watched as it swung wide. Watched as a tall guy with dark hair and dark eyes stepped to the threshold. Watched as he leaned an elbow against the doorjamb and nodded at the guy three doors down. “Yep.”

I gasped.

The guy was Mr. Broad Shoulders, my mysterious restroom kisser. Raphael Jones.

My belly flipped and flopped. My breath caught in my throat. My heart punched away at my stuck breath, trying to take its place. My nipples… Well, okay, you probably don’t want to know about them. All in all, I was having a whole-body reaction to the sight of my bathroom kisser right there in front of me.

Holy crap, how could he be right there
in front
of me?

Just like in a movie—except maybe in even slower slo-mo—Raphael Jones swung his gaze to where I stood just inside my room. Surprise registered in his dark-brown eyes. Followed by confusion.

And then suspicion. The open friendliness that had been in his face vanished at the sight of me. Just like that. His jaw bunched. His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared.

One second, he was a relaxed guy with a hint of a dimple in his right cheek. The next, he was glaring at me as if I was the anti-Christ come to call off spring break. Except Australians don’t have spring break and I wasn’t the anti-Christ. The only thing I’m truly
anti
is Fox News.