Free Unconditional by Cherie M. Hudson

strutting about without a shirt on.”
    “Says the shirtless man,” I pointed out with a grin.
    He looked down at himself, surprise pulling at his face. I did mention he looked like a younger, blond Robert Downey Jr, didn’t I? “Hey, where the hell did my shirt go?”
    I laughed. A lovely, warm, squiggly sensation was making itself at home in the pit of my belly. Taking another sip of water, I turned to the yard beyond the deck railing. There were a few people out there, most getting to know each other in ways beyond the cerebral. My belly fluttered again, the butterflies in there no longer insane but nervous. I don’t know why I was nervous. It wasn’t like I was on a date. True, I was standing next to a half-naked hot guy in my underwear, but I already knew more about him than I did Raphael Jones, and Raphael Jones and I had damn near dry-humped each other. Twice.
    The thought of Raph Jones soured the yummy warmth in my belly and I scowled.
    Crap, why was I thinking about him again?
    And why was I nervous?
    “By the way,” Brendon uttered, his voice a low conspirator’s whisper. “Don’t think I’m not impressed with how well you dodged answering my question about your Parkinson’s.”
    I pulled in a swift breath, tightening my grip on my bottle. At the mention of my condition, my brain decided it was time to acknowledge my hand was shaking. Not badly, but enough to be obvious. Embarrassed dismay scraped at my happiness.
    “Nor,” Brendon continued with a nudge of his hip against mine, “that you chose not to mock my taste in music.”
    A weak chuckle slipped past my lips. I knew what he was doing. Deflecting his gentle probing about my Parkinson’s onto his ancient music choice. So he’d sensed my apprehension and was happy to let the subject drop. I lowered my gaze to my hand, watching the slight tremble moving it.
    I thought of what Brendon had revealed, about his aunt, about his studies. I thought of the way he’d mocked himself in his efforts to make me feel at ease.
    I thought of his friendly smile and relaxed humor.
    And, I have to admit, a small part of me thought of his muscles.
    “I was diagnosed last year,” I said, watching my fingers shake. Not much, but enough. Hell, anything but steady was enough. God, I’d taken my meds, so what the hell was up with the tremors? “My mom has it as well, although she was diagnosed ten years ago. It’s not a hereditary disease so the fact we both have it is either some higher force’s idea of a bad joke or just a horrible case of random bad luck. I haven’t decided which yet.”
    Brendon didn’t say anything for a while. Around us, the party continued. More than one underwear-clad couple spilled past us, laughing their way down the stairs into the shadows of the backyard. I watched them, a small smile pulling at the corners of my lips. Even though I had no idea what the Australian beside me was going to say, I felt okay fessing up to my situation. There was something about Brendon Osmond that made me feel safe.
    And after the turbulent emotional rollercoaster that was Raph Jones, safe was a good thing.
    “Reckon daily sessions getting hot and sweaty with me might be in order for you.”
    Brendon’s unexpected statement yanked me out of my reverie. “Huh?”
    He tossed me a grin, the ubiquitous bottle of mineral water half raised to his mouth. “Daily sessions,” he said. “With me. In the gym. In the morning before anyone else gets there.”
    I kind of gaped at him. My heart leapt into my throat. My belly fluttered. So did my you-know-what. Was he suggesting what I think he was suggesting?
    “Physical exercise is good for Parkinson’s,” he went on, a glint in his eyes “Keeping the muscles moving the way you want them to move.”
    “Oh,” I breathed. “You mean working out. Like a cardio-and-weights type thing.”
    He laughed. “What else would I mean?”
    A blush flooded my cheeks and he laughed again.
    “Damn, Plenty, Ohio. Let me