The Billionaire's Private Nurse

Chapter Three - Close Shave

KAMERON

She returned to the office in eight and a half minutes. Yes, I was timing her. She had removed the wrinkled dress, and now wore bright pink scrubs with small green frogs hopping across the fabric. I frowned deeply at the uniform. It seemed very inappropriate for a professional nurse, unless maybe she was working in a pediatric office. I resolved that I would have to revise the dress code for my private-duty nurse. Her wild hair had been somewhat tamed into a bun on the top of her head. She gave me a sunny smile. “Are you ready, Mr. Greene?”

Her cheerfulness irked me. What did she have to be happy about? “Yes. The bathroom is this way.” I directed my motorized chair back toward my bedroom, where the large shower was located en-suite. When I built this house, I had specified that the entire first floor be handicapped accessible. At the time, I’d been thinking of accommodating either one my parents when they became elderly. Not that they needed handicapped access at the moment. I'd never thought I would be the one who needed extra wide doorways, or grab-bars all over my bathroom.

I led the way into my bedroom, and pretended not to notice when she discretely checked out my room. I was fastidious about neatness and order. The new, adjustable bed was neatly made with a gray comforter and a pile of soft pillows. The Hoyer lift was parked neatly beside it. If it were not for the hardcover book resting on the night stand, along with an assortment of pill bottles, it would just look like an uninhabited guest room at a hotel. There were no personal touches, no photographs, no mementos. Just an impeccably clean and sterile sleeping space.

“The car I was in rolled eight times before it landed upside down in the bottom of a ravine,” I said flatly. “I was buckled into my seat, which probably saved my life, but the engine block ended up in my ribcage. I unbuttoned the top of my silk pajamas and showed her the ugly scars that ran from my armpit to my belly button. “I broke seven ribs, punctured a lung, and fractured three vertebrae.”

She nodded, and her eyes scanned over my scars. Her face showed no emotion, no pity, no sympathy. I liked that, I hated when people looked at me with pity.

“The orthopedic specialist called it anterior spinal syndrome.” I didn’t know why I was telling her all this. She had read the file; she knew all the details already. I just felt like I had to fill the silence with something. I rolled into the bathroom. Like the bedroom, everything was sparkling clean, and nothing was out of place.

“Now, if you don’t mind? I haven’t had a shower in two days, not since the last nurse quit. Let’s start with a shave.” I parked my wheelchair in front of the double sinks and mirrored wall.

She quirked an eyebrow at me. “Do you have problems with your arms or hands?”

“No.” I turned the chair to glare at her.

She tipped her head to the side, like an inquisitive cat. “Then why do you need assistance to shave?”

“Assisting me with personal care and grooming is part of your job description, is it not, Miss Clarke?”

“Sure,” she said with a shrug, “It's just that most patients are eager to be more independent, you know, do as much as they can for themselves. But if you would like assistance, that’s what I’m here for.” She gave me a saccharine sweet smile, but I didn’t miss the criticism in her comment. You should be doing more for yourself. I grit my teeth together in frustration. I really didn’t like this woman.

“Where is your shaving kit?”

I directed her to the cupboard, and she removed the items she needed. My shaving cream, my quadruple blade razor, and the bottle of aftershave. The confident way she moved around the bathroom showed that she was comfortable and accustomed to doing these kinds of tasks. I watched her in the mirror as she grabbed a towel and placed it on her shoulder. “Okay. Ready?”

I grunted in response, and tipped my head back slightly to make my jaw more accessible. She wet my face with a washcloth first, and then slathered on a thick layer of shaving cream. She then went to work with the razor. I was a little alarmed at how speedily she was working. “You are doing it wrong,” I started to criticize her. I was feeling more than a little uneasy at the closeness. I could smell her, and she smelled slightly like warm vanilla and coconut.

“No talking!” she said firmly. “Or I might knick you.”

I wanted to argue with her, but the woman did have a razor at my throat, so I wisely decided to shut my mouth. Instead, I focused on her breasts, which were right at eye level. Her loose-fitting scrubs couldn't hide the full figure underneath. Her hands moved over my face with expert precision. “Okay, purse your lips,” she instructed as she carefully shaved my upper lip. It was impressive that she managed to shave me in half the time it had taken most of the male nurses. She quickly wiped away the remaining shaving cream, soaked her hands in my aftershave, and patted it on my cheeks and chin. I welcomed the slight stinging sensation. At least I felt smooth and clean. She offered me a hand mirror so I could inspect myself closely. It was a good shave. She hadn’t left any stubble anywhere, she hadn’t irritated my skin, and best of all, she hadn’t made any cuts. Still, I didn’t want to admit that she’d done a good job. Hell, she’d probably done better work than I could have done. “You did it wrong,” I grumbled.

“That’s okay, maybe next time you’ll do it yourself, eh?” she said cheerily. Her cheerfulness grated on my nerves. She went about cleaning my razor and putting the items back in the cupboard. She glanced back over her shoulder at me. “Aren’t you going to undress for the shower?”

I stared back at her with a droll expression. “I can’t.”