The Billionaire's Private Nurse

Chapter Five - Dinner

KAMERON

I was exhausted. I was a man who was at the peak of my physical condition just a couple of months ago. Now just taking a shower made me feel as weak and shaky as a newborn fawn. And the nurse was driving me crazy. I knew that she was just a nurse, doing her job, but I was hyper aware of her hands on my body the whole time. She had a touch that was sure and firm but gentle at the same time. If I hadn’t been so bloody uncomfortable, I could easily have imagined those hands in a whole different scenario. But in my imagination, I sure as hell wouldn’t be stuck sitting on a plastic shower chair needing a nurse to scrub my ass!

Feeling disgusted with myself, with her, with the whole world, I opened my drawers and pulled out another pair of pajamas. She was leaning against the door jamb watching me curiously. “You know,” she said quietly, “You might feel better if you dressed in regular clothes, instead of wearing pajamas all the time.”

I glared at her. Did she think I didn’t know that? I was a man who was used to wearing expensive, tailored suits, custom-made silk shirts, and power ties. But after the ordeal of the shower, I was depleted. I didn’t want to have to go through the painful ritual of changing my clothes again in just a few hours when I wanted to go to bed. I said nothing, but held out the clothing for her assistance. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug and then proceeded to help me dress without any more comment. Her movements were experienced and efficient, and if she noticed that my arms were shaking when I tried to lift my hips for her, she didn’t say. She buttoned the front of my pajama shirt as though I was a child and then stepped back.

I adjusted the cuffs and avoided her gaze. I didn’t want to see her cheerful smile, or her thoughtful eyes.

“Is there anything else you need at the moment?”

“No,” I didn’t mean to snap, but the answer came out short and clipped. “Dinner is at eight.”

“Do I eat with you, or do I take my meals in the kitchen?” She asked carefully.

I steered my chair away from her, so that my back was turned to her as I considered my answer. Normally, the staff ate in the kitchen, and I took my meals alone. I surprised myself when I said, “You eat in the dining room with me.”

I retreated back into my office. I had become an expert at positioning the chair at my big desk. The desk had been raised up on blocks so that the arms of the wheel chair would fit underneath it. I slid my keyboard into place and stared unseeing at the multiple screens set up in front of me. Since I was alone in the office, I let my shoulders sag, and slouched forward. With the desk in front of me, at least I didn’t have to worry about tumbling out of the god-damned chair. (Something I’d already done twice in the last month.) My whole body was uncomfortable. My back ached from sitting all day. The slightest stretching made my ribs feel like they were ripping apart. My legs were burning as though I had the worst sunburn in the world. Sometimes they burned like that, sometimes I felt like I was being electrocuted, and sometimes I had a pins-and-needles sensation. Sometimes the muscles jumped and twitched by themselves, making my legs dance around uncontrollably. Sometimes I felt nothing at all, which was even more terrifying. When my legs were uncomfortable, it made my whole body feel hot and flushed.

Was this going to be my existence for the rest of my life?

The doctors told me I was lucky to be alive. Lucky? This was lucky? I fisted my hands on the desk. Last year, at this time, I’d been training for an Iron Man. I wasn’t normally an endurance athlete, I was a lifter, but I’d wanted a challenge, so Phil and I had signed up for a local Iron Man that wouldn’t get too much press. Phil had gotten a better time, of course, but I had a respectable finish.

Now I couldn’t even lift my own body weight out of the chair to dress myself. Every time I had to use the toilet it was a f*****g nightmare. The nurses kept saying, “Don’t worry, it gets easier.” That was a lie. It wasn’t getting any easier.

I turned my eyes to the screen and forced myself to concentrate on work. That was the only thing I had to distract myself from the constant pain and discomfort of the chair. I had the acquisitions file open, showing all the properties we had purchased and taken over in the last five years. Most of the commercial properties we bought were already distressed. The owners were usually more than happy to have my company take the burden off their hands. But once in a while, there was a situation where the previous owners were hostile or resentful. Those were cases where the property was held by a family or an individual instead of a disinterested corporation or investment group.

I had highlighted a few transactions where I was aware that the previous owners had been disgruntled. But were any of them angry enough that they would actually attempt murder? The police were making no progress on my case. After two months, they had zero leads. I had hired my own investigators after the crash, and I had forwarded them the names I had highlighted. I had also sent the names to my private security team. It seemed like a stretch, but I didn’t know where else to start. Who else would hate me enough to actually want me dead?

I felt a familiar stab of guilt as I switched screens. Nathan Greene, my longtime driver and friend, was dead. He’d been in the driver’s seat when the truck had hit us, and according to the coroner, he’d probably been dead on the first impact. He was a good man, with a wife and two little boys. How f*****g unfair that he’d died just because he’d been in the car with me? When I decided to choose a fake name to use while I was recovering, I'd chosen Greene as a sort of homage to my friend. Every time the staff called me Mr. Greene, it was a reminder to me that Nate had died for me. Sometimes I wished that we could have switched places. Nate had a family. What did I have? A f*****g company?

There was a light knock at the door, and my elderly butler popped his head through the opening. His white hair was carefully combed over his bald spot, and he had perfectly trimmed sideburns. “Dinner is ready, Sir.”

Paul Stevenson was an English-trained butler who had worked for the family for more than thirty years. When my father retired and decided to travel, I had sort of inherited Paul. He was small and extremely proper. He always wore a black suit, white gloves, stood ramrod straight, and addressed me as “Sir” even though he had been around when I was still in diapers. The man was in his seventies, but he refused to retire. “Thanks Paul. Oh, the bathroom-”

Paul made a face, something that was a little out of character. He usually maintained a perfectly neutral expression. “The lady has already tidied the bathroom,” he informed me stiffly, with an air of offense.

I couldn’t help but chuckle as Paul retreated from the room. I was a little annoyed that the nurse had ignored my instructions. I had specifically told her to leave the mess for the staff. But I was also amused to see my old butler a little ruffled. I closed out the work I was doing on the computer, and then drove myself through the house to the big formal dining room. It had a big table that could easily seat twelve, but at the moment it was set for two. The chair had been removed from the head of the table so that I could park my chair there, and the spot to my right had been set for the nurse. I noted with a frown that she was not yet at the table.

“Paul, have you called the nurse?”

“Yes S--”

“I’m here,” she breezed into the room. She had changed out of her soggy frog-print scrubs, and had replaced them with... Tweety Bird? Seriously? She flashed me a sunny smile as she slid into the seat next to me.

Paul placed the plates before us. “Shrimp scampi over zucchini noodles, with broccoli florets,” he announced as he removed the covers that were keeping the food warm. The cook had informed him that they were called “zoodles”, but he wouldn’t be caught dead using such a silly word.

“Mmm, looks delicious,” the nurse picked up her fork. “Do you follow a low-carb diet, Mr. Greene?”

“More or less,” I said, picking up my own fork.

“Oh, I see.” she murmured.

The butler had returned with a bottle of white wine. “Pinot Grigio?” I nodded and watched as my wine glass was filled with the expensive label.

The butler then turned to the nurse but she shook her head. “No, thank you.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m on duty,” she said easily, her smile dimpling her cheeks. “And I don’t care for wine. The water is fine.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes. She seemed completely unphased by the awkwardness of the situation. I frowned down at my plate. Why had I invited her to dine with me? It only made things more uncomfortable.

She took it upon herself to make conversation. “So tell me Mr. Greene,” she said, as she took a sip from her water glass. “What do you do for fun?”

My frown deepened. I considered ignoring her question. But finally, I looked up and met her curious brown gaze. “Nothing. Everything that I used to do for fun required the use of my legs.”

A crease appeared between her brows. “Almost everything can be modified,” she said quietly. “I can tell by your physique that you are athletic.”

“Was. Was athletic.” I said bitterly.

She waved her hand. “You can adapt a weight lifting routine. Keeping your upper body strong will help you so much with daily tasks. And stretching will make everything so much easier--”

I slammed my fork back down on the table. “I didn’t invite you to dinner so that you could lecture me, Miss Clarke.”

For a moment she looked hurt, but she quickly composed her face into a polite and professional mask. “My apologies, Mr. Greene.” she said tightly. She made no attempt to argue or defend herself. She finished the rest of her meal in silence. When she had cleaned most of the food from her plate, she stood up and quietly excused herself. “Thank you for dinner. Please call me when you need me.” She pushed in her chair and walked from the room with her head held high.

I swore and threw my napkin on the table. I would have liked to have thrown a lot more than that, but I’d already been through my temper-tantrum phase. If I broke any more of the antique family crystal, Paul would kill me.