Unconditional Read Online Free PDF Page A

looked me up and down and then, with a low sound that may have been a growl, turned his attention back to Mr. Info Dump down the corridor. “I’ll let you know later about tonight, Macca. May have to attend a function.”
    As it had in the airport bathroom, his accent made my tummy do weird things, like twist and knot and clench. It dawned on me no other Australian accent affected me the same way, as if there was something about the way Raphael Jones spoke that messed with my head.
    Which was stupid. I have enough things messing with my head, what with the Parkinson’s and its merry goal of turning me into a walking, talking tremor machine.
    “Later?” Mr. Info Dump flicked me a curious look as if I’d grown an extra head. Maybe because Raphael had changed his mind about attending the party tonight after seeing me? Maybe because the tremors had hit me. Hard. My left hand was shaking pretty bad. I could feel it working through me, a bone-deep quaking I couldn’t control.
    God, I hate it.
    Hate it.
    Having Parkinson’s sucks. Big time.
    An itching sensation on the side of my head jerked my rather unfocused attention away from the guy three doors down and back to Raphael. He was staring at me. The glare was gone. Replaced by hesitant uncertainty.
    My heart kicked up a notch or two. Our eyes met. The hint of a dimple flashed at me in his right cheek.
    I swallowed, the memory of his kiss making my breath shallow. My head swam a little and, like it always does when my body and brain are under some kind of stress, the tremors intensified. At my side, my hand slapped lightly against my hip. Over and over again.
    And then it happened. The thing I hate more than having Parkinson’s disease. The thing I hate the most. Hate with all my soul.
    Someone becoming aware I have Parkinson’s.
    Raphael’s gaze dropped to my stupid shaking left hand and his dark eyebrows instantly knitted in curiosity. “Hey,” he said, his voice low. Worried. “Are you—”
    I turned and hurried into my room.
    Okay, it wasn’t quite that perfect. I spun on my heel, banged my hip on the doorframe, collided with the damn door and almost fell into my room.
    The last thing I heard before I slammed the door was Raphael Jones calling out to me. “Hey, American girl? Are you—”
    I slumped against the door and rammed my left hand to my left thigh, a woeful attempt at stopping the tremors. It didn’t work. No matter how hard I pressed my palm to my leg, my hand kept shaking. I’d like to say I didn’t cry at that point in time. I’d like to say almost a year of suffering Parkinson’s, as well as ten years of living with it, had hardened me to the emotional devastation it wrought upon me.
    I’d like to say that, but I can’t.
    Squeezing my eyes shut, I gripped my fucking thigh with trembling fingers and wept. Great, silent sobs of self-pity and hatred and homesickness.
    Christ, what the fuck was I doing here? At least back in the States my friends knew what I had. They knew how to deal with it, which was—by my request—to ignore it. Here…
    I slid to the floor, hugged my shins and buried my face between my knees, my tears hot as they soaked through the denim of my jeans. I stayed that way for a long time. Long enough to finally get a cramp in my lower back and for my butt to go numb.
    My first few hours in Australia were far from auspicious.
    If it wasn’t for a knock on my door I may have stayed that way for the night. I was tired and drowning in self-loathing. What better place to have an existential crisis than on the floor? But someone did knock on my door. I felt the three sharp raps vibrate through the wood and into my back.
    Swiping at my eyes with the back of my hands—my left one still shaking—I pushed myself to my feet and opened the door. I had no idea who would be on the other side, but I doubted it would be Raphael Jones. If he were truly interested or concerned in this here American girl’s emotional state, he would have