the smooth skin and showing little creases around her eyes. He’d liked her better before.
He moved in the chair, turning around to see the mumbling Dave.
‘Dave, what’s going on here?’ His voice sounded a little funny. A little slow. His eyes took in the chaos in the kitchen, which looked as if food had exploded all around it. He stood up and pointed. ‘And what on earth happened in my kitchen?’
The last thing he could remember was looking at the clock and wondering when his nurse would arrive. He hadn’t even decided what room to put her in.
His shirt was flapping around and he did up a few of the buttons haphazardly. Not that he was embarrassed by his body. The amount of calendars he sold every year put paid to that idea. But it was hardly an ideal meeting with his new nurse. When had she got here?
New nurse. Now his brain was kicking back into gear he was more than a little surprised. He had kind of expected some older matron-type who’d bark orders at him for the next three weeks.
He certainly hadn’t expected some cute, slim, blonde-haired, blue-eyed chocolate-box-type cheerleader. In lots of ways he should be pleased.
But he wasn’t. Not really. Something wasn’t right. Was this what the doctor had warned him about? How sometimes with diabetes you could be unwell?
After tonight’s display he needed someone to get his condition under control so he could start on his tour. People were counting on him. Kids were counting on him—not to mention their families. The last thing he needed was some bright-eyed, bushy-tailed young girl hanging around him, distracting him.
She tapped him on the arm. The expression on her face had changed. She wasn’t all smiles now. She was deadly serious. ‘Mitchell, can you tell me where your blood-glucose meter is? You need to check your levels then we’ll have a chat about what just happened.’
She spoke to him as if he was a child. Her tone and stance had changed completely.
So Mitchell did what he always did. He completely ignored her and walked over to the kitchen, crunching on some broken glass on the tiled floor. ‘Who broke a glass?’ he yelled, spinning around to accuse Dave and the strange new nurse.
He held his hands out. ‘What happened, Dave? Who did it? Who’s been in my kitchen?’ He didn’t like disorder. That’s why it was so much easier staying by himself—there was no one else around to make a mess.
Dave was pushing things back into cupboards. He turned around and rested his hands behind him on the countertop, hesitating before he spoke.
‘Well, actually, I wasn’t here. I went to pick up Samantha at the airport. And when we got back … His voice tailed off as if he didn’t want to finish.
Mitchell could feel his exasperation reach breaking point. He had no idea what was going on in his own home. ‘When you got back, what?’ He glanced at the clock and blinked, then looked again. The last two hours of his life seemed to have vanished without him knowing where they’d gone.
Dave laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You were raking about the cupboards and the fridge. We weren’t quite sure what you were doing.’
It was as if the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle fell into place. Except it didn’t slot in quietly, it slammed in, as if banged by a hammer. Realisation dawned on his face and he looked around again. ‘I did this?’
Samantha appeared at his side. ‘Mitchell, it’s time you and I had a talk.’
This time he erupted. ‘I don’t want to talk! I want to know what the hell happened here!’
But his nurse didn’t jump at his outburst. She didn’t seem at all surprised. She just folded her arms across her chest as if she were some kind of immovable force. ‘From this point onwards you do exactly what I tell you. If I tell you we’re going to talk then …’ she paused ‘… we’re going to talk.’ She pointed over towards the sofa. ‘So get your butt over there, Mr Brody, and sit down!’
The heat in the kitchen was stifling. Samantha yanked off her goose-down jacket and flung it over a chair. If she kept this on much longer she would be roasted like a chicken. Her face must be scarlet by now.
This was definitely a baptism of fire. She looked at the clock—it was almost midnight and Dave had already told her he didn’t stay in the house. ‘Dave, why don’t you go on home to bed? I’ll be fine. I’ll need to talk to you in the morning though, it’s important you understand how to deal with things.’
Dave gave a grateful nod and disappeared out of the door as if he were being chased by a herd of zombies. All of this was definitely new to him.
Mitchell hadn’t moved—probably from the shock of someone talking to him like that. What was she thinking? But she was his nurse. It was her job to take charge. ‘Mitchell, your blood-glucose meter, where is it?’ He was in shock, she could tell. It looked like he’d just experienced his first full-blown hypoglycaemic attack and was totally confused.
After a few seconds he turned to face her.
Wow. He was just inches from her, and Samantha had just experienced the full Brody effect—those dark brown eyes and perfect teeth. It didn’t matter that his face was gaunter than normal and his body leaner. Teenagers all over the world would give their eye-teeth to be in this position. She was trying not to focus on the bare skin on his chest and scattered dark hair beneath the loosely fastened shirt. Trying not to lower her gaze to get another look at his abs.
She was beginning to feel a little hot and bothered again. He hadn’t moved. His brown eyes were fixed on hers. Sucking her in and making her forget what she was supposed to be doing. What on earth was he thinking?
Then he blinked.
He pointed over to a blue plastic box nestled behind the sofa. ‘It’s there.’
The moment was completely lost and Sam mentally kicked herself.
It snapped her back into focus. She was here to do a job. Here to get this man well again. She couldn’t stand around, mooning like some teenager. It was embarrassing.
She walked over, picked up the box and gestured to him to sit down again, but he shook his head and moved over towards the huge dining table instead.
As the minutes progressed he was getting more and more back to normal—whatever Mitchell Brody’s normal might be. The dining table was more formal than lounging on the sofa. She was kind of annoyed she hadn’t thought of it herself. She had to keep this on a professional level.
He slumped down into one of the chairs, his handsome face skewed by a puzzled frown. It wasn’t familiar. She’d never seen a picture of him looking so dejected. It made things crystal clear for her. She had to take rock star Mitchell Brody, and what she knew of him, out of this equation.
This was a twenty-nine-year-old guy who’d just been diagnosed with a life-changing disease—and by the look of his body the diagnosis had taken a long time.
She reached out and touched his hand before she spoke. He flinched a little at her touch. ‘Mitchell, I’m going to help you with this. Everything will be fine. It’s still early days. We’ve got three weeks to try and help you get a handle on your condition.’
He
