Unconditional (9 page)

Her smirk grew wider. “Mechanical engineering.”

I burst out laughing.

“C’mon.” She reclaimed my hand with hers. “Vegemite time. Josie Witmore’s got a jar opened and a packet of Saos ready to roll.”

I shook my head at her. “I have no idea what Saos are.”

“Of course you don’t. But you will soon. Oh and guess who’s arrived, dressed in the sexist white boxer briefs you’ve ever seen?”

Once again, I shook my head, caught up in her jubilant vivaciousness.

“Josh Blackthorne.”

“Who’s Josh Blackthorne?” I asked.

She burst out laughing. “Honey, Josh Blackthorne is Liam Hemsworth, Ryan Gosling and Channing Tatum all rolled up into one. Let’s go. It’s time to educate you on all things Australian.”

Naked Men in Cafes

At an ungodly hour the next morning, while I was still semi-catatonic in bed with a slight hangover, a chirpy knock sounded on my door. Unwisely, I had consumed more of those damn drinks with the umbrellas in them, most of them with Josh Blackthorne, a student at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music. Bad move for someone meant to be having an early start, right?

“C’mon, Plenty, Ohio,” Brendon’s voice came from the other side. “Time to get sweaty.”

“What the hell?” I grumbled, shoving my head under my pillow. “Go away. Come back when it’s later.”

He laughed at my grumpy rejection and then started to knock what sounded like Imagine Dragon’s “On Top of the World” on the door.

Five minutes of that, plus his insistence he wasn’t going anywhere until we worked up a sweat together, finally propelled me out of bed. Part of me suspected he was doing it to irritate Raph in the room opposite to mine. I may have had a few too many umbrella drinks, but I
did
remember what Heather had told me about Brendon and Raphael. And what Heather had told me about the way Raph looked at me and the way he’d looked when I left with Brendon. I didn’t know Brendon well at that stage, but I also remembered the glint in his eyes when he was talking to Raph before we departed.

They might not be enemies, but they were definitely competitors. I still hadn’t decided how I felt about being the object of that possibly friendly rivalry. If indeed I
was
said object. I’ve never really had that big an opinion of myself, but I couldn’t deny having two hot Aussie guys interested in me was a bit of a buzz.

“Okay, okay,” I grumped at the door. “I’m up.” I dug out the gym gear I’d packed from my suitcase—Adidas.
Tsk, tsk
. What would Heather think?—pulled it on, swished my mouth with mouthwash, realized I had nowhere to spit it, scrunched up my face and swallowed it, grimaced, yanked my hair back in a ponytail and hurried to the door.

Brendon stood grinning on the other side. “Morning.”

I was about to return his greeting when movement behind him caught my attention.

Raph’s door was opening.

Wide enough for someone to step out of it.

The perky little blonde who’d plastered herself all over Brendon last night, to be precise. Wearing nothing but the skimpy thong and bra set and a satisfied expression.

My heart smashed into my throat. A hot, sour taste filled my mouth.

Jealousy slammed into me. Pure, undiluted, totally unjustified jealousy.

I must have pulled some kind of face, because Brendon twisted around to see what I was gaping at.

The blonde flicked us both a quick smile, wiggled her fingers at Brendon, pulled the door shut without making a sound and hurried away on tiptoes, as if afraid to wake people.

I blinked, unsettled.

“Well, that was unexpected.”

Jerking my stare back to Brendon, I tried to force an air of indifference to my face. “What was?”

He frowned. “I could have sworn Claudia had a tattoo.”

As it had before, his relaxed sense of humor pulled me from my unsettled state. He was making a habit of it. I liked it.

With a grin, he jogged a couple of times on the spot. “Race you to the gym?”

I laughed. “Seeing as I have no idea where it is, you’d win.”

“Oh well, in that case…” He held out his right arm like an elderly gent. “Let me escort you there instead.”

Smiling, I slipped my fingers around his bulging biceps—holy smack, did he feel incredible. “With pleasure.”

Ten minutes later, we were at the gym.

Brendon unlocked it, hit the lights, turned on the music and spun to face me. “Ready?”

I nodded.

He slapped his hands together, eyes twinkling. “Let’s do this.”

Twenty minutes later, I swore I was going to kill him. Damn, my body had never worked so hard. Or sweat so much. I groaned my way through a session of cardio and weights designed—I’m sure—to make a professional athlete curl up and cry.

If I wasn’t so determined to show I was capable of doing it, I would have burst into tears somewhere around the twentieth burpee.

While I worked out, Brendon talked to me. Most of it was casual chatter, but every now and again he’d ask an obscure question he pretended was him being silly but was what I knew was him trying to learn more about my Parkinson’s. Questions like which hand did I clean my teeth with and did I wear lace-less shoes because I didn’t know how to tie shoelaces yet?

I answered both honestly. I brushed my teeth with my right because my left hand was weaker than it used to be and I didn’t like the reminder every morning and night. I wore lace-less shoes because they looked cool.

I didn’t tell him doing up my shoelaces was only a problem when I was really tired, stressed or behind on my meds. He might make me laugh a lot, and look absolutely delicious in his loose white tank top and black running shorts, but I wasn’t quite ready to divulge all.

I’d promised myself my condition was never going to be a topic of conversation, and even though Brendon was more versed on what I was going through than most, I still wasn’t going to be defined by it.

I refused to be. And since I’d arrived in Australia—less than twenty-four ago—my Parkinson’s had occupied a large part of my focus. Along with Raphael Jones and now Brendon Osmond.

That had to change. While I couldn’t get rid of my damn tremors, I could at least spend less time thinking about them.

The gym filled up not much longer after that with young, lithe, tremble-free bodies. I could see what Heather meant about the number of other women in the place all doing whatever they could to make Brendon notice them. There was an amazing amount of tight Lycra and push-up sports bras on display. Along with an equal amount of lingering looks directed at the gym manager.

When he finally said we were finished, forty-five minutes after we’d begun, I was so exhausted and physically drained I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, hug him or punch him. So I settled with collapsing to the floor in a melodramatic swoon.

And that’s when Brendon did the unthinkable. He made a fuss.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he cried, alarm in his voice as he dropped to his knees beside me. “You okay?”

I opened my eyes, finding him hovering over me, concern on his Robert Downey Jr.-handsome face.

Behind him, curious onlookers watched us.

The weary smile that had been curling my lips died. The enjoyable warmth I felt in my belly at not only being in his company but achieving something as daunting as an intense personal training session curdled.

“Maci?” He frowned, pressing his fingers to the pulse point on my throat. “You should have told me I was pushing you too—”

I slapped his hand away, dismayed not just at his assumption I was medically unsound, but at the trembles in
my
hand. Goddamn it, couldn’t I even work up a sweat like a normal twenty-two-year-old without my body behaving like a fucking eighty-year-old? “I’m fine,” I ground out, rolling away from him.

I pushed myself to my feet. And staggered sideways.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I think I may have mentioned one of the things with Parkinson’s disease is an occasional inability to retain balance. It can hit you anytime, but especially when standing quickly from a seated or horizontal position. To be honest, at this point I don’t know if it was my Parkinson’s that made me stumble or sheer physical exhaustion—I
was
still operating on Ohio time after all, and jet lag was still clinging to me like goddamn seaweed—but I was too wounded by Brendon’s obvious worry to let rational thought get in the way of a grump attack.

Unfortunately, my feet weren’t being nice to me and Brendon was by far faster at regaining his. With fluid speed and grace, he leapt upright and caught my elbow, halting my lurching sideways stumble.

“Whoa, Maci,” he murmured. “I gotcha.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. I could feel the stares of those around us crawling over my face like frenzied ants. I shrugged my elbow out of Brendon’s grip and, head down, muttered a thank you, followed by a just-as muttered, “I’ve got to go.”

I hurried past him, not looking back, refusing to even raise my head.

I was at the gym’s entry door when he caught up with me. “Hold on there, Plenty, Ohio,” he said, catching my arm with a firm grip.

Grinding my teeth and balling my fists, I turned back. “What? We’re finished, aren’t we?”

He studied me. I could make out in my peripheral vision the other gym attendees doing the same thing. “I stuffed up, didn’t I?”

I shook my head. “I’m fine. Just want to go have a shower.”

“Ahh, the dreaded word
fine
.” He let out a slow sigh. “The bane of every guy’s existence when uttered by a woman. The word that really means I want to break you in half and stuff your stupid face with your stupid words.”

I didn’t laugh. Instead, I shucked my arm from his grip and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “What do I owe you for today?”

He didn’t answer and I could tell he was trying to decide how to proceed.

Here’s the thing with Parkinson’s disease. It’s not just all shakes and trembles and falling down. It is a brain problem, after all. It can, at times, make you very surly. I watched Dad tiptoe around Mom often, especially in the last few years before he was killed. I don’t know if my surliness at that moment was because of the fucked-up state my brain was in, jet lag, sleep-deprivation, my goddamn pain-in-the-ass PD or because Brendon Osmond had made me feel the very way I hated feeling—vulnerable and weak. Either way, I was happy to entrench myself in it.

“That much, huh?” I sneered.

With an ambiguous nod, he held up his hands, palms out. “On the house today.”

For a second, a wave of guilty regret washed over me. He’d been so nice, he
was
so nice, and he’d only been concerned. And then I caught a glimpse of the curious onlookers watching our interaction, thought of the way they’d all seen Brendon behaving like I was an invalid, and guilty regret was strangled by annoyance and embarrassment again.

See what I mean? Surliness.

With my own ambiguous nod, I walked through the door. “Thanks.”

I wasn’t three steps away when I heard the door open behind me. My heart thumped faster, and given I’d just finished a massive workout, it was already freaking fast. I didn’t want him coming after me. I wanted to soak in my ire.

“Same time tomorrow, Plenty, Ohio,” he called at my back.

It wasn’t a question. Nor could I detect any anger or disappointment in his voice. Damn, this guy was unflappable in his good mood.

I made it back to Mackellar House without stumbling or lurching once. No one looked at me like I was a debilitated freak. No one made sympathy noises or pulled pitying faces.

Why would they? No one knew much about me. Those who were at the underwear party last night knew me as the new American student here on a ten-week scholarship to study koalas and global warming. Those who weren’t there most likely didn’t give a rat’s ass who I was. Just another student trudging through the university grounds dressed in gym gear and looking drained.

And still, the image of the other gym-goers peering at me on the floor wouldn’t leave my head. Wondering what was wrong with me, why Brendon was so alarmed…

The concern in the gym manager’s eyes still mocked me.

I ground my teeth, balled my trembling hands and trudged faster up the stairs to my room. I needed a shower, food and my meds.

My fucking meds. Damn, I hated that I needed them.

Hated it with a passion.

There was no one in the communal bathroom when I got there. I thanked God for that. While I was in the shower, I heard people come and go, mostly other girls brushing their teeth by the sound of it. At the sound of Macca’s deep rumbling voice—you all remember the guy three doors down from me, right? Raph’s friend?—I almost forgot to breathe. Was Raph with him?

When silence fell over the bathroom once again without a sound of Raph himself, I let out a ragged sigh, rinsed my hair of its conditioner and killed the water.

Five minutes later, dry and dressed, I opened the shower cubicle door and came face-to-face with Heather.

“Ready?” she asked with a grin.

I frowned. For some stupid reason, disappointment swelled in my stomach. Surely I hadn’t wanted Raphael Jones to be there, had I? We’d made it a habit of bumping into each other in public bathrooms, but that didn’t mean I wanted the habit to continue. Did I? “For what?” I asked, slinging my damp towel—I’d remembered it this time. Maci Learn-From-Her-Mistakes Rowling, that’s me—over my shoulder.

Heather’s grin grew wider. “For all things Australian. It’s starting now with Vegemite on toast and Milo.”

The next two weeks—or
fortnight
, as the Aussies call it—passed in a blur. Heather
did
, in fact, make it her mission to educate me on all things Australian, and I spent every day when I wasn’t in class trying or experiencing something only found or originating in the country. I discovered I
hated
Vegemite, loved Tim Tams, could take or leave pavlova and would never get enough lamingtons. Oh boy, those sweet little vanilla cakes covered in chocolate syrup and dipped in coconut are addictive. If you ever get the chance to try one, don’t. Not unless you plan to gain a gazillion pounds.