Unconditional by Cherie M. Hudson Page A

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