Unconditional: A Coming of Age Romance Novel (Always)

by Cherie M Hudson

  She slid a gaze my way. “You’re staying with Maci?”

  Raph smoothed his arm around my back and smiled down at me. “Absolutely,” he murmured.

  The weight of the word, the open emotion in his eyes stole my breath. I knew he wasn’t talking about just the weekend.

  “Use protection,” Mr. Patterson instructed with a barely engaged voice.

  God help me, my cheeks flooded with heat.

  “Thanks for the advice, Dad,” Raph threw over his shoulder as we exited the dining room.

  It was, I have to admit, the most surreal meal I’ve had. And remember, I’ve eaten at a café with naked people sitting on pedestals.

  We walked back to the guesthouse hand in hand. Neither of us spoke for a while. The silence was relaxed and wonderful. In fact, the whole thing was wonderful—Raph’s fingers holding mine, our palms together, his tall presence beside me, that distinctly sweet, fresh scent the air gets after rain…it was perfect.

  Raph pulled me to a halt twice. Both times to kiss me. Tender, lingering kisses that filled me with more happiness and contented joy than I thought was possible.

  We checked out the stars, and boy were there a lot of them. This far away from the bright lights of civilization, the Milky Way looked like a blanket of twinkling diamonds in the black sky. Raph held me close, spooning me from behind as he pointed out various constellations. He knew the stories behind them all, and I listened, rapt, as he recounted the different Aboriginal legends behind each one.

  By the time we made it back to the guesthouse, I was damn near floating. I didn’t think I’d ever been this happy. Ever.

  We showered together, making love under the water before moving to the bed. Once again, Raph tied me up. I have to tell you, there is something utterly addictive about being bound to the bed while your lover explores your body with his hands and tongue and lips. This time, Raph blindfolded me, and holy shit, did it make me hot. Who knew I was so kinky?

  Afterwards, I took my meds—there was no way I was going to forget them—and we settled down to watch some television.

  Somewhere around one a.m., we made love again, but this time I was the one who tied Raph up.

  Trust me, if you ever get the chance to do that—tie up your partner—do so. That’s all I’m saying.

  The sun was high when I woke the next morning.

  I lay in Raph’s arms for a long moment, pondering my situation, my life.

  Only twenty-four hours ago, I was determined to forget about Raph altogether. I was hell bent on erasing him from my memory even as I accepted it was impossible. I was adamant cutting him from my life was the right thing to do, the only thing to do, and yet here I was now, blissfully happy in his arms.

  What did I do about that?

  It had always been about knowing my future. From the second the doctor told me I had Parkinson’s disease, I knew what was going to happen in my life. I knew what to expect as the years unfolded before me. I knew what my ultimate fate was going to be.

  And then, along comes this guy, this Australian guy with his emotionally detached upbringing, his celebrity status, his stubborn refusal to let me wallow in my own pity, and bam, I’m in love and contemplating a future with him in it.

  I’d done my best to paint the most horrific image of the life ahead of me in an attempt to scare him off, and it hadn’t worked.

  So what did I do now?

  What did we do now? Given I was returning to Plenty, Ohio, in three weeks? How would that work?

  Could it?

  “What are you thinking?”

  I wriggled in Raph’s arms at his sleepy mumble. “Do penguins have knees?”

  He laughed softly at my question, tugged me closer to his body and nuzzled a line of kisses along my shoulder and up to the back of my neck. “What I want to know is, which armrest is yours at a movie theater?”

  I closed my eyes, the soft pressure of his lips on my skin sending a shiver of delight into the center of my being. I’d never get tired of his touch. Ever.

  God, what would I do if he ever got tired of touching me?

  What would I do when, in years to come, he got fed up with the way I shook in my sleep? Or when my meds started to impact my sex drive? I’d heard Mom tell Dad once that they did, that they not only reduced her tremors but her libido. What would Raph do when that happened? What would I do?

  Hot tears pricked the backs of my eyes, taking me by surprise. I bit back a sob, cursing my stupid brain. The moment was too perfect. How could I be ruining it with stupid, horrible, bleak thoughts?

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  “Hey.” Raph lifted his head from the back of my neck. With a gentle tug, he rolled me onto my back and frowned down at me. “What’s going on, American girl?”

  The concern in his voice knotted my stomach. I tried to look away. I didn’t want him to see me like this.

  But he wouldn’t let me. Tucking his finger under my chin, he drew my face back to his, his eyes swimming with worry. “Talk to me, Maci,” he said. “I can’t take away your fear if you don’t tell me what it is.”

  “I didn’t want to fall in love with you,” I confessed. “It was easier when I knew I’d never have to worry about being a burden to anyone. Now…” I shrugged. “What happens if you realize you can’t deal with what I’ve got? What happens to my stupid heart then?”

  He regarded me with a silent gaze for a long moment. He didn’t pull away from me. “There’s a word in the dictionary you might be familiar with,” he finally said, brushing his thumb along my lower lip.

  “What’s that?” I asked on a husky whisper.

  He smiled. “Unconditional.” And then, eyes twinkling, he started singing the Katy Perry song, his voice woeful, his enthusiasm awesome, and all thoughts of being miserable and scared and worried left me.

  I knew the subject needed to be addressed at some point before the weekend was over, it really did, but for now I was willing to lose myself in the pleasure and happiness of this moment, this reality with Raph.

  Sometime later, after more…y’know…Raph decided to make breakfast.

  “I should warn you,” he said, cracking what I think was the sixth egg into a large bowl, “I’m not the best cook in the world.”

  I sniggered. “Can’t be any worse than me. Mom tells me I burn water.”

  He chuckled. “So it’s a life of eating take-away and going out for dinner for us then? Excellent. I’ve never been a fan of doing the dishes.”

  Pushing myself from the bed, I crossed to where he stood at the kitchen counter, slid my arms around his waist and rested my chin on his broad shoulder. “Then I hope you plan on making lots of money,” I mumbled, letting my hands roam the six-pack of his stomach, “’cause this tree-hugging greenie with a pending degree in environmental sciences is not likely to make any.”

  Damn, I loved the feel of his hard body pressed to mine. It helped that both of us were semi-naked. The warmth from his muscular back seeping into my chest and belly was so perfect it made me a little giddy.

  “Hey—” he turned his head and dropped a quick kiss to the tip of my nose, “—I plan on being ridiculously rich. Of course, I also plan on being a world famous artist as well, so it’s probably best you don’t hold your breath.”

  I laughed, enjoying the moment.

  “I also plan on being an astronaut,” he continued, whisking the eggs with reckless abandon. “Just so you know.”

  “Oh, in that case—” I trailed my fingers over his navel and along the downy line of hair beneath it leading to his groin, “—can I be a life-drawing model? Like the kind we saw at Triptych?”

  “No bloody way. I’m not letting weirdoes stare at my woman naked, thank you very much.”

  A tight thrill of excitement shot through me at the possessive tone I heard in his chuckled response.

  “But if we’re eating out all the time…” I teased, slipping my fingers beneath the elastic band of his boxers. “Or ordering in…�
��

  “I’ll work a double shift at NASA…ah, fuck me, Maci, that feels good.”

  I squeezed his cock again, giggling into his shoulder at the way he turned the title of America’s space agency into a raw groan of pleasure.

  We did eat our eggs. An hour later. And they weren’t exactly…good. But due to the fact Raph made them for me, with buttered toast that he did very well, and a mug of steaming coffee, they were the most delicious eggs I’d ever had.

  Okay, not really. They were kind of gross, but the sentiment behind them was romantic and wonderful so I didn’t care at all.

  We were doing the dishes a short time later when he leaned his ass on the kitchen counter and gave me a contemplative inspection. “The last time we woke up together, I asked you to go to Wet’n’Wild with me.”

  I nodded, passing him a wet plate to be dried. At the horrible memory of what had come after that invitation, I pulled a face. Damn, that morning. “You did.”

  He took the plate and swirled the dishtowel over it, watching his hand’s circular path. “And we didn’t get there.”

  I let out a wry snort. “We didn’t.”

  “So I was thinking…” He raised his focus from the plate, a grin I could only describe as devilish playing with his lips. “We could go today.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “To Sydney?”

  He laughed. “I was thinking of the Kangaroo Creek version.”

  “The what?”

  He took the last plate—now freshly washed—from my hand and winked. “Wait and see. You brought your swimmers, right?”

  Thank God I’d spent over two weeks listening to Heather call her bathing suit swimmers, otherwise I’d be more puzzled. I nodded.

  With another grin, he whipped the dishtowel over the plate, placed both on the counter and then snared my hips with his hands. “Go get dressed in them. No work today. The koalas can take a break from being studied and watched while they sleep.”

  I pulled an indignant face, even as I wriggled the lower half of my belly harder against his groin. “Hey, that’s my thesis you’re dissing.”

  He chuckled, stole a kiss and then slapped me on the ass. “And it’s brilliant. I stole a peek last night while you were showering. Even I might be convinced there is such a thing as global warming when you’re done. Maybe.”

  I shoved him away with a laugh. “Douchebag.”

  Nimble as always, he bounced away from me. “Hurry up. We want to hit the slides before the crowds.”

  Still completely puzzled by the whole situation and more than a little excited, I crossed to the tallboy near the bed and withdrew my bikini from the top drawer.

  Twenty minutes later, we pulled to a halt beside the most picturesque billabong I’d ever seen. In fact, the only billabong I’d ever seen.

  Damn, it was pretty.

  Okay, cultural lesson number 642 about Australia: A billabong is a body of water that forms from an offshoot of a river, usually branching out from the main flow during or after an extended period of rain. Essentially, it’s like a pond that appears when there’s been lots of rain and then, when it’s really dry, it disappears.

  Raph had brought me to the main billabong on Kangaroo Creek Station. And we were going to swim in it.

  Not just swim in it. Slide into it. Because, yep, right beside the billabong was a sloped stretch of grass-covered land that, with a little bit of splashing and a lot of courage, would make a perfect slide.

  Wet. And wild.

  We spent the morning there, swimming, engaging in fierce water fights, making out. Lots of making out. But also lots of talking. I think we lay stretched out on our towels with the sun seeping into our wet bodies, drying our skin, for at least an hour doing nothing else but talking about stuff. Not important stuff, just stuff. The kind of stuff that makes up a life between couples. The kind of stuff my mom and dad used to talk about. “Just shootin’ the breeze, honey,” Mom would say when I asked her what she and Dad were doing when I’d find them sitting in the front porch swing, iced tea in hand.

  Getting-to-know-you stuff. Which I guess is, when it comes down to it, really quite important after all.

  And through it all, the splashing, the kissing, the talking, the comfortable silences, I fell deeper and deeper in love with him. And I came to the realization that, no matter what my future held, I wanted him in it.

  It was that simple.

  Rolling onto my side, I draped my leg over his thigh and rested my head in my hand. “Raph?” I said, heart beating fast. It wasn’t often a girl admitted she was wrong. I never admitted I was wrong. Like, ever. This was a momentous event.

  Raph rolled his head, currently resting on his threaded fingers, and gave me a lazy grin. “American girl?”

  I looked at him, really looked at him. Burned every feature, every line, every freckle and bit of beard stubble into my brain. In the years to come, I wanted to remember this moment. “I was wrong,” I said.

  He studied me. A slight frown pulled at his eyebrows. “About what?”

  “About telling you I didn’t want you to care for me, back in Mackellar House when we had our…fight.” I paused. Swallowed. Touched my fingers to his chest, above where his heart would be. “I know my life is going to get pretty crappy at some point. Yes, there are medical breakthroughs all the time, and the work Michael J. Fox’s Parkinson’s disease foundation does is incredible. And I know here in Australia your doctors are making serious headways into treatments. But at the moment, all those treatments are just that—treatments. A way of managing the condition. No one has developed a cure for it, and they may never do so in my lifetime. I know all that, and it makes my future worrisome. I’ve watched Mom and Dad go through it, I’ve seen the crap of it all and I never wanted to put someone in that situation.”

  The frown knitting his eyebrows grew deeper. “Your mum and dad?”

  I nodded. Oh man, did I feel nervous. “Mom has Parkinson’s as well. She was diagnosed over ten years ago. She’s…she’s in an advanced state. I’ve spent so many mealtimes waiting to see if she’s going to choke on her soup because her throat decides mid-swallow to stop working. I’ve spent days at school, at college wondering if she’s fallen over and hurt herself, maybe hit her head and is unconscious, or bleeding out…It’s not…well, it’s not fun.”

  “Jesus, Maci,” Raph breathed. “I didn’t…why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Pride. Stubborn pride,” I answered honestly. “And embarrassment. Humiliation. All the things that make people do stupid things. I didn’t want anyone to think of me as broken or looking at me with pity. I hate that. But you’ve made me realize…” I let out a sigh, closing my eyes for a moment at a wave of something profound and significant rolled through me. “I’ve come to realize the one person I don’t want to be stubborn with, the one person who makes me not afraid, who makes me not care about humiliation, is you.”

  His jaw bunched. He looked at me, silent.

  “I was wrong to say I didn’t want you to care about me,” I continued, my throat tight. “I kinda like that you do a lot.”

  He drew a deep breath. And then, without a word, rolled over until we faced each other, knees to knees, chest to chest, heart to heat. “Do you remember that word I said this morning?”

  I nodded.

  He touched my bottom lip with his thumb. “What was it again? Say it for me?”

  “Unconditional,” I answered on a whisper. Christ, I felt like every fiber in my body was thrumming.

  The corners of his lips twitched. “Sorry? I didn’t hear that. What was it again?”

  “Unconditional,” I repeated, a bit louder this time.

  He grinned. “What? I still can’t hear you.”

  “Unconditional!” I burst out, singing the word in my best Katy Perry voice, which is, to be fair, goddamn awful.

  But then, so were Raph’s scrambled eggs that morning and I’d loved every bite.

  “You better fucking believe it, baby,” he growled, eyes da
ncing with joy as he flattened me to my back and proceeded to make love to me. So many times I lost count of how many orgasms I had.

  Whoa.

  The next afternoon, Sunday, he left.

  I drove him to the bus station, my heart a messed-up mix of grief and rapture. He had to get back to his classes at the university and I had to get back to my fieldwork and thesis. Life was interrupting our heaven. Damn it. But boy, was our heaven wonderful.

  We stood under the bus shelter holding each other, refusing to look away. I know it sounds ridiculous and melodramatic, but that’s what love is, right? Everything is in hyper color when you’re in love. Everything is on full volume. Nothing is diluted or filtered.

  “I’ll be back next Friday,” he promised, doing that strokey thing on my bottom lip with his thumb I loved so much. “I’ll drive this time. Takes too bloody long on the bus and train. Also means I don’t have to leave until late Sunday night.”

  I forced a smile. I was going to miss him. “Watch out for Shelly,” I said, trying to sound witty and failing miserably.

  “Who?”

  The damn Greyhound bus pulled to a halt beside the curb before I could think of something equally not-witty to respond with.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, pulling me closer to him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  With another forced laugh, I shoved him away from me. “Get out of here, Jones,” I ordered. “You’re bothering me.”

  He snared my wrist with impressive reflexes, yanked me back to his body and kissed me, a hard, fast, mind-spinning kiss. “Love you,” he whispered against my lips a heartbeat before he let me go and ran for the bus’s open door.

  “Love you too,” I yelled back, grinning.

  Yes, I was shaking. I knew it and so did Raph. Probably one of the reasons he didn’t want to climb on the bus now.

  But he had to. And he did. Which sucked. Big time. But it was easier to deal with because I knew he was coming back. I knew he loved me and I knew we were going to work it all out, including the whole Australia-American-geographical-impediment thing.

  I knew all those things, so I didn’t break down into a sobbing mass of heartbroken misery.