Unconditional: A Coming of Age Romance Novel (Always)

by Cherie M Hudson

“Can you speak?”

  I blinked at his good natured question. Blushed. Caught my bottom lip with my teeth and shook my head.

  His eyebrows shot up. “You can’t?”

  “I can,” I blurted out, nodding this time. Talk about being a mess of contradictions. “I’m just…” I paused, stopping myself from telling him I was falling in lust with him. Yeah, not exactly cool behavior. Gushing all over a complete stranger on the way to the bathroom? Welcome to Australia.

  “I’m just…desperate,” I finished, ducking my head. I sounded like an idiot.

  He laughed, the sound warm and friendly. “To go to the loo?”

  I peered up at him through my bangs. “Yeah.”

  That crooked grin was back on his face. As before, it made my body do things I wasn’t entirely used to.

  “You better go then.” He stepped aside and held an arm out, directing me deeper into the men’s restroom.

  Another warm blush swept over my cheeks. I frowned. Shuffled my feet.

  He cocked an eyebrow, devilment in his dark-brown eyes. “Something else you’re desperate for?”

  “A kiss?” The question fell past my lips before I could stop it.

  Holy shit, what was I doing? Was I really that tired? Had to be. Why else would I say something so…so…embarrassing? I couldn’t be flirting with him. I wasn’t any good at it. I was an environmentalist dork with Parkinson’s. As if I knew how to flirt.

  Was I delusional? Was my brain finally betraying me compl—

  Warm lips brushed over mine in a lingering caress of skin on skin. I would have melted on the spot…if it wasn’t for the fact I yelped so loud in shocked disbelief and stumbled back a step.

  Or two.

  Or four.

  Mr. Broad Shoulders laughed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

  Just to make it clear before I continue. I’m not a virgin. I’d lost my virginity to my high school boyfriend four nights after my sixteenth birthday, the school quarterback, no less. How’s that for both an achievement and a cliché? But since I found out I have Parkinson’s, I’ve pretty much shut down any and all notion of romance. Who wants to get romantic with someone who’s going to be a shaky mess in a few years? I can’t imagine there are many guys out there willing to roll with that kind of burden, so I stopped putting myself out there. Which might explain my very active fantasy obsession with a married Australian actor, now that I think about it. Hmmm. Desire the impossible to substitute the denied. Makes sense, right?

  I gaped up at my mysterious kisser—again. Heart beating way too fast, I pressed my fingers to my lips. “Why did you do that?”

  “You asked.” His grin turned wickedly playful, hinting at a dimple in his right cheek, and he leaned a little closer to me, his brown eyes holding mine. “And you looked so damn sexy with your mussed-up hair and coffee-stained shirt.”

  A wave of embarrassment flooded my face. I slapped my hand to my left boob, hurting myself in a rather ridiculous attempt to hide the stain he’d already pointed out. Why do we do that, by the way? Try to conceal something once it’s been pointed out? Like the way mining corporations plant rows of trees around the boundaries of their open-cut mines, as if some greenery will conceal the massive gaping wound gouged into the planet by their machinery.

  His low chuckle tickled my senses again, drawing a frown from me. “Are you mocking me?” I asked, a distant part of my mind telling me I still needed to use the toilet.

  “No. Honest. The second you ran into me, I wanted to kiss you.”

  It was my turn to cock an eyebrow. I love that I can do that—cock an eyebrow. It speaks volumes. Attitude from your waiter? Cock an eyebrow. Lip from your study partner? Cock an eyebrow. Absurd claim from a stranger in a public restroom? Cock an eyebrow.

  “The second?” I echoed.

  His lips twitched. Christ, he was hot. “Okay, maybe the second after the second. When you realized who you’d run into.”

  Who I’d run into? Didn’t he mean where I’d run into? The men’s toilet rather than the ladies’?

  I frowned.

  He frowned in return. “You do know who I am, right?” he asked, curious conviction in his deep voice. Have I mentioned the sexy Australian accent? “That’s why you asked for the kiss. Because of the way my sister met the prince?”

  My eyebrows shot up my forehead. I’d like to say I had a hand in their journey, but my brain was too busy being stunned by what I’d just heard for any conscious direction to body parts or facial features. What did he just say? “Prince?” I echoed.

  It was obvious I had no freaking clue what he was talking about. Clear enough for him to pull a grimace. A sexy grimace, if that’s possible to visualize.

  “You don’t know who I am?”

  I shook my head. Deep in the pit of my stomach, a twisting tension curled tighter. A sexual tension. Or maybe it was the fact I still hadn’t peed.

  He let out an amused sigh, dragging his hands through his dark hair as he did so. “Fuck, ’eh? So you just asked for a kiss because…”

  The question hung on the air between us, looking for an answer. One I couldn’t provide. What was I going to say? ’Cause you’re really, really hot? Instead, I said, “Who are you?”

  He flashed me that lopsided grin again, let out another laugh and ducked his head. “No one important,” he said.

  And then, before I could stop him, he closed the small distance between us, lowered his head to mine and kissed me again.

  Longer this time.

  Holy fuck, did he know how to kiss. He parted his lips, dipped his tongue into my mouth—when had my lips parted, I wonder?—and found mine with wicked ease, teasing it with a slow, lingering stroke.

  My heart slammed up into my throat some more. The tight twist of tension in the pit of my belly knotted in on itself. The heat in the junction of my thighs fluttered and pulsed and throbbed in a way it never had before and a soft little moan vibrated deep in my chest.

  And then someone cleared his throat behind us and I let out another yelp of surprise, this one a violent, full-body yelp involving jumping and spinning about.

  A tall man wearing a dark-blue suit and dark sunglasses was standing a few feet into the bathroom’s entryway looking at Mr. Broad Shoulders. “It’s time, Mr. Jones.”

  Behind me, Mr. Broad Shoulders—correct that, Mr. Jones—uttered an almost inaudible, “Fuck”.

  He slid warm fingers up my arm, making me flinch, and I turned back to face him, for some reason completely unsure of what the hell was going on.

  “I have to go,” he said, a grin playing with his lips. Lips that only a second ago had been on mine. “I’ll make sure no one comes into the loo while you’re in here, okay?”

  And without another word, he strode past me, past the man in the dark-blue suit, and out into the airport terminal.

  Leaving me standing in a public restroom that obviously wasn’t the ladies’, with the moisture of his kiss a cool memory on my lips.

  I gaped at the man in the suit, waiting for an explanation.

  It didn’t come.

  The man pivoted on his heel and stood with his back to me, muttering something into his shirt cuff.

  If that’s not a WTF moment, I don’t know what is.

  I blinked. Took a step to follow the now-absent Mr. Jones—could that really be his name?—and was suddenly hit with the need to empty my bladder. Again. With all the force of a wrecking ball hitting an outhouse made of paper.

  I let out a little cry, doubled over, rammed my thighs together and did that ridiculous sprint for a cubicle you do when you need to go to the bathroom in a hurry. The one where your knees are stuck together, your jaw is clenched shut and your hands are balled into fists.

  I hit the door running, spun 180 degrees, slammed the door shut, locked it, dropped my bag, yanked down my jeans and panties in one go and made it without a second to lose.

  If it weren’t for the man in the suit only a few feet away, I would hav
e let out an ahhhh of relief.

  But there was a man in a suit only a few feet away. A mysterious man who seemed to be connected to an even more mysterious man who’d kissed me because I’d asked him to.

  What the hell was up with that?

  A few minutes later, with the sound of the toilet flush a loud roar in the surreal silence, I emerged from the cubicle only to discover I was completely alone.

  “Huh,” I snorted. “Weird.”

  By the time I finished washing my hands, a string of men of various ages and attire was pouring into the bathroom. They all balked at the sight of me just as they were about to approach the urinal, their hands on their flies. No one said anything.

  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.