Unconditional Read Online Free Page B

mentioned earlier. Nine p.m. in the common room downstairs. The theme is underwear, which means you’re going to be prancing around in your undies and bra for the night. How cool does that sound?”
    And with that, Heather—my welcoming guide to the University of Sydney—skipped away. Seriously. She skipped.
    Wow.
    I watched her go, having a strange Dorothy in Oz moment, and then turned back to my room.
    My room.
    Not mine and so-and-so’s name’s room. My room.
    Alone. I had a room all to myself.
    It was nice.
    Small and uncluttered with a single bed on one side and a desk, mini fridge, flat-screen television and armchair on the other. In between was a large window framed by a sheer blue curtain currently dancing on the warm summer breeze wafting through it.
    As I said, nice.
    I took a step in, dropped my carry-on at my feet and drew a deep, slow breath. And backed up that step when I heard someone behind me shout, “Oi, Jones! You going tonight?”
    A guy—a rather hot-looking guy, I have to admit—was leaning halfway out of the room three doors down from mine, hanging from the doorjamb by his fingers, staring at the closed door opposite me.
    I frowned. For some reason, my heart beat faster.
    The rather hot-looking guy flicked me a grin and a wink. “G’day. You the Yank?”
    I blinked. Before I could answer, the sound of the door opposite me being opened snagged my attention.
    I watched as it swung wide. Watched as a tall guy with dark hair and dark eyes stepped to the threshold. Watched as he leaned an elbow against the doorjamb and nodded at the guy three doors down. “Yep.”
    I gasped.
    The guy was Mr. Broad Shoulders, my mysterious restroom kisser. Raphael Jones.
    My belly flipped and flopped. My breath caught in my throat. My heart punched away at my stuck breath, trying to take its place. My nipples… Well, okay, you probably don’t want to know about them. All in all, I was having a whole-body reaction to the sight of my bathroom kisser right there in front of me.
    Holy crap, how could he be right there in front of me?
    Just like in a movie—except maybe in even slower slo-mo—Raphael Jones swung his gaze to where I stood just inside my room. Surprise registered in his dark-brown eyes. Followed by confusion.
    And then suspicion. The open friendliness that had been in his face vanished at the sight of me. Just like that. His jaw bunched. His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared.
    One second, he was a relaxed guy with a hint of a dimple in his right cheek. The next, he was glaring at me as if I was the anti-Christ come to call off spring break. Except Australians don’t have spring break and I wasn’t the anti-Christ. The only thing I’m truly anti is Fox News.
    I swallowed, struck dumb.
    This was the same guy that had kissed me, seriously kissed me, less than an hour ago. And now he was glaring at me?
    “What are you doing here?” His voice was just as deep and sexy as it had been before.
    “She’s the Yank, Jones,” my neighbor three doors down offered, laughter in his voice. “The one here on scholarship to study the impact of global warming on native wildlife.”
    Raphael Jones glared some more. Remember when I said earlier he’d somehow managed to make grimacing look sexy? Well, he was doing the same thing with glaring. There was a potent smolder to his expression now, an arrogant haughtiness that awoke a throbbing sensation in the very apex of my thighs.
    The effect, however, was somewhat dampened by the fact the glare remained.
    What had I done?
    The thought maybe he thought I was a stalker popped into my head. He had been chased by paparazzi, after all. And I did slam into him in the men’s room. And ask for a kiss. I still can’t believe I did that. Maybe he thought I was some kind of crazy fan?
    “I’m not a stalker,” I blurted out. “Honest.”
    A charged tension claimed his body. His hand—initially relaxed beside his head—curled into a tight fist.
    What had I said?
    He