Unconditional (8 page)

If Brendon detected my fluster, he didn’t show it. And let’s be honest, he wouldn’t have been able to miss it. “A year ago,” he answered, straightening again, bottle half raised to his mouth. “Followed a girl there.”

The confession sent a funny little blip though me. Not jealousy, just…funny. Man, my descriptive skills are woeful, aren’t they? Good thing I never plan on being a journalist.

“Did she follow you back?” I asked.

He smiled at the stars, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down the muscular column of his throat. “No.”

We stood there for a moment in silence. It was nice. Companionable. The flutter in my belly calmed and my pulse returned to its normal pace.

And then he said, “So how long have you had Parkinson’s disease?”

My blood ran cold. My stomach didn’t just clench or churn; it knotted, rolled, threw an epileptic fit and burst into butterflies. Insane butterflies. I swallowed, the lump in my throat sizable. I forced a puzzled frown on my face, my mouth dry. “Why do you think I have Parkinson’s disease?”

His smile wasn’t sympathetic or pitying or repulsed or any of the other emotions I’ve grown accustomed to seeing on people’s faces when they discover what I have. It was understanding. “Haven’t you noticed?” He raised his right arm and bent his elbow, drawing his balled fist to his ear. “I’m all about muscles and muscle movement.”

For a moment, it wasn’t just my belly doing all the insane fluttering. At the sight of Brendon Osmond’s supremely sublime right biceps bulging, the whole area below my navel went on hyperactive alert. Damn, I don’t think I’d ever seen muscles so impressive.

His casual laugh pulled me out of my far-from-poised gape and I dragged my stare from his arm, up to his face. “Okay, I’m going to admit I just did that to show off,” he said. “Sorry, but the point is, I know about muscle movement and motor-neuron function. Any personal trainer and fitness manager should, and I’m not just your average gym junkie. I’m in my last year of a Bachelor of Applied Science majoring in exercise and sport science, so I’ve got all aspects of the body covered. Plus my aunt has ALS, what you guys in the States call Lou Gehrig’s disease, so I’ve got a personal interest in it as well.”

I stared at him. “Wow.”

He grinned. “Told you I wasn’t your average gym junkie.”

I shook my head. For some reason, I was lost for words.

“My favorite movie is
Batman Begins
,” he went on. “I love peanut-butter-and-lettuce sandwiches, am partial to the color blue, have a serious thing for Emma Watson, own every Coldplay album ever released and can’t stand the
Twilight
series.”

I frowned. “And the reason you’re telling me all this…?”

“I’m a firm believer in transparency and getting the important facts out there straight up at the start of a new relationship.”

“We have a relationship already?”

He laughed. “Hey, I
did
say start.”

I smiled, raising my bottle to my lips. “You did.” I took a sip of water. The fact we weren’t talking about my Parkinson’s was a good thing. He might be blasé about it, but that didn’t mean I was ready to open up. “So what’s your issue with the
Twilight
series? Is it the sparkly vampire thing?”

“That and the whole Bella-is-so-beautiful-everyone-wants-to-bone-her-even-though-she’s-a-submissive-waste-of-space thing,” he answered. “And don’t get me started on the pubescent werewolf who’s constantly strutting about without a shirt on.”

“Says the shirtless man,” I pointed out with a grin.

He looked down at himself, surprise pulling at his face. I
did
mention he looked like a younger, blond Robert Downey Jr, didn’t I? “Hey, where the hell did my shirt go?”

I laughed. A lovely, warm, squiggly sensation was making itself at home in the pit of my belly. Taking another sip of water, I turned to the yard beyond the deck railing. There were a few people out there, most getting to know each other in ways beyond the cerebral. My belly fluttered again, the butterflies in there no longer insane but nervous. I don’t know why I was nervous. It wasn’t like I was on a date. True, I
was
standing next to a half-naked hot guy in my underwear, but I already knew more about him than I did Raphael Jones, and Raphael Jones and I had damn near dry-humped each other. Twice.

The thought of Raph Jones soured the yummy warmth in my belly and I scowled.

Crap, why was I thinking about
him
again?

And why
was
I nervous?

“By the way,” Brendon uttered, his voice a low conspirator’s whisper. “Don’t think I’m not impressed with how well you dodged answering my question about your Parkinson’s.”

I pulled in a swift breath, tightening my grip on my bottle. At the mention of my condition, my brain decided it was time to acknowledge my hand was shaking. Not badly, but enough to be obvious. Embarrassed dismay scraped at my happiness.

“Nor,” Brendon continued with a nudge of his hip against mine, “that you chose not to mock my taste in music.”

A weak chuckle slipped past my lips. I knew what he was doing. Deflecting his gentle probing about my Parkinson’s onto his ancient music choice. So he’d sensed my apprehension and was happy to let the subject drop. I lowered my gaze to my hand, watching the slight tremble moving it.

I thought of what Brendon had revealed, about his aunt, about his studies. I thought of the way he’d mocked himself in his efforts to make me feel at ease.

I thought of his friendly smile and relaxed humor.

And, I have to admit, a small part of me thought of his muscles.

“I was diagnosed last year,” I said, watching my fingers shake. Not much, but enough. Hell, anything but steady was enough. God, I’d taken my meds, so what the hell was up with the tremors? “My mom has it as well, although she was diagnosed ten years ago. It’s not a hereditary disease so the fact we
both
have it is either some higher force’s idea of a bad joke or just a horrible case of random bad luck. I haven’t decided which yet.”

Brendon didn’t say anything for a while. Around us, the party continued. More than one underwear-clad couple spilled past us, laughing their way down the stairs into the shadows of the backyard. I watched them, a small smile pulling at the corners of my lips. Even though I had no idea what the Australian beside me was going to say, I felt okay fessing up to my situation. There was something about Brendon Osmond that made me feel safe.

And after the turbulent emotional rollercoaster that was Raph Jones, safe was a good thing.

“Reckon daily sessions getting hot and sweaty with me might be in order for you.”

Brendon’s unexpected statement yanked me out of my reverie. “Huh?”

He tossed me a grin, the ubiquitous bottle of mineral water half raised to his mouth. “Daily sessions,” he said. “With me. In the gym. In the morning before anyone else gets there.”

I kind of gaped at him. My heart leapt into my throat. My belly fluttered. So did my you-know-what. Was he suggesting what I think he was suggesting?

“Physical exercise is good for Parkinson’s,” he went on, a glint in his eyes “Keeping the muscles moving the way you want them to move.”

“Oh,” I breathed. “You mean working out. Like a cardio-and-weights type thing.”

He laughed. “What else would I mean?”

A blush flooded my cheeks and he laughed again.

“Damn, Plenty, Ohio. Let me at least buy you a coffee or green tea or something before you start thinking about us having sex.”

It was my turn to laugh. I ducked my head, the heat in my cheeks creeping up into my scalp. “Hey, I’m jet-lagged, okay?”

He chuckled, took a sip of water and nudged me with his hip again. “Okay. I’ll let you off this time. But what do you think about us getting some clothes on and getting out of this place? There’s a café around the corner that brews the best green tea ever. My treat.”

I couldn’t help but laugh once again. Nor stop picture him pouring me a mug of steaming hot green tea while buck naked. I’m blaming that far-from-platonic image on jet lag as well, just in case you’re interested. And don’t ask what he looked like in my head without his clothes because I’m not telling. Suffice to say, I’ve come to the realization the Australian air was bringing out the dirtiness in my mind, because damn, there was a lot of naked, exposed flesh going on in there. A
lot
of naked, exposed—

“There you are!” The female voice rose above the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears.

I swung away from Brendon just in time to see Heather wrap her arm around my shoulder. She hugged me as if I hadn’t only just left her company a few minutes ago.

“Whoa, girlfriend.” I giggled into her hair, holding my bottle of water away from her back. “I missed you too.”

“Someone else is missing you,” she whispered. “And didn’t look too happy when you took off with The Biceps.”

Right away, I knew who she was talking about. My pounding pulse quickened and a lump filled my throat. Before I could stop myself, I peered over her shoulder, searching for—

“He’s not there,” Heather muttered a second before pulling away from me. Grinning up at Brendon, she wriggled her eyebrows. “I’m stealing my American friend back, Brendon. Sorry. You’ve monopolized her for too long tonight.”

Behind me, Brendon let out that relaxed laugh of his. “That’s okay. I’ve got her tomorrow morning.”

Heather pulled a wickedly intrigued face, sliding her gaze from him to me. “
Oh
, do tell.”

“She’s getting hot and sweaty with me.”

“Is she now?” Heather cocked an eyebrow, her lips twitching.

I rolled my eyes. “A physical therapy session, you dirty-minded woman.”

The second the words popped out of my mouth, I tried to bite them back.

Sure enough, Heather asked the question I knew she would, a frown pulling at her eyebrows. “Physical therapy? Why do you need physical therapy? What’s broken?”

“Her heart,” Brendon said, stepping up beside me. “I told her I’m not available.”

Heather snorted. “Ah, that’s right. You’re saving yourself for Emma Watson.”

Brendon gave a sage nod. “I’m saving myself for Emma Watson.”

With another snort, Heather threaded her fingers through mine and fixed him with an exasperated look. “You’re delusional, Brendon Osmond.”

He preened, obviously taking her insult as a compliment. “And a thorough optimist. You’ll see, me and Emma. It’s the way it’s meant to be.”

“All right, all right.” Heather rolled her eyes again. “Whatever you reckon. Come along, Rowling. I want to see you try Vegemite.”

“Vegemite.” I frowned as Heather tugged me away from Brendon and toward the door. “That’s the jar of black stuff in the welcome basket in my room, right?”

“Run, Maci!” Brendon called behind us. “Run now! Before it’s too late!”

Heather chuckled, dragging me back inside. “Shut up, Osmond,” she tossed over her shoulder with a grin. “Go bench-press a train or something.”

Brendon’s laugh told me he wasn’t offended by her jibe. I flicked him a look just in time to see a girl roughly my age in the skimpiest thong and bra set imaginable plaster herself to his body and rub her palms up his very impressive chest.

He grinned at me over her head, dropped a quick wink and then turned his attention to her with a smile and a laugh.

A flutter of that same emotion I’d experienced earlier when he’d mentioned a girl in America danced in my belly again. Not jealousy but…something.

“He’s a really nice guy,” Heather said in my ear as she led me back into the party. “But such a player. Serious commitment-phobe as well. He’s broken more than a few hearts, and that’s not including any of the poor girls who fall in love with him without even going out with him.”

I cast her a dubious sideways glance. “Really?”

She nodded. “Seriously. I know of more than one girl who goes to the gym for no other reason than to watch him, hoping he’ll notice her fumbling away on the treadmill and come to her rescue.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Pretty woeful, isn’t it?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you one of them?”

Heather laughed. “Hell, yeah. I spent a good month prancing about in the gym in my sexiest Lorna Jane before I realized what I was doing.”

“Lorna Jane?”

She gaped at me. “Oh my God, woman. We are going shopping tomorrow. If you’re going to be working out with The Biceps you need to deck yourself out in Lorna Jane. It’s like Nike with attitude. It’ll drive him wild and make Raph utterly mental with jealousy knowing you’re getting hot and sweaty in it with The Biceps.”

I stumbled. “Raph utterly mental with
what
?”

Impish delight flittered across Heather’s face. “Jealousy. Did you
see
the way he was looking at you tonight? When you were lecturing him about koalas? Lust. Pure and simple and open lust. Like you were an ice cream and he wanted to devour you even though he was on a diet.”

I snorted, aware my belly was competing with my pulse for the fastest fluttering. “I saw the utterly
disdainful
way he looked at me. Not sure about lust and the whole ice cream simile.”

Heather smirked. “Hence the diet. He wants you even though he reckons he’s sworn off ice cream for his health. You’re like the delicacy he’s craving now, the only thing that’ll sate his hunger and he’s grumpy about it. Furious in fact. And then, while he’s devouring you with his stare, thinking about how much he wants to lick you up, along comes his antithesis, his polar opposite, his nemesis for want of a better word—”

“Nemesis?” I interrupted, eyebrows journeying up my forehead.

“—who swoops you off your feet and away from him,” Heather continued, ignoring my incredulous expression. “So not only is he now craving what he’s ruled unsuitable for his diet, he’s watching someone else put you on his menu and tuck a napkin under his chiseled chin. It’s priceless. Awesome even. Worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster starring Channing Tatum. Or Ryan Gosling. Or Liam Hemsworth. Maybe all three.”

Belly still fluttering, I fixed her with a skeptical stare. “Heather, what exactly
is
your major again?”