The Billionaire's Private Nurse

Chapter Nine - Sweet Spot

I calmed the fluttering in my stomach as I approached Mr. Greene’s bedroom and knocked on the door at precisely 7:00AM. I was aware that the man was probably very angry with me, but I had explained to him from the beginning what my off duty and on duty hours were. I have been in the business of private nursing long enough to know that it was absolutely essential to maintain some boundaries. I had woken up at 5:30 am, worked my way through my usual morning exercise routine, had a hot shower, and was now presenting myself as cheerfully as I could at his doorway.

When he granted permission, I pushed open the door. I forced a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Greene.”

He was scowling at me. I felt his eyes sweep up and down my body as his face reflected his disapproval. I was wearing my teal scrubs with the yellow smiley faces all over them. Mr. Greene pursed his lips. “Your uniform is wrinkled.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. That’s it? That’s all he had to say? “Right, hello to you too.” My cheeks were starting to ache from keeping my smile in place. I looked at him critically. It was readily apparent that he had made no attempt to get out of bed for himself. He had the back of the bed sitting up, a laptop balanced over his thighs, his phone and several papers spread out next to him in bed. I took a deep breath and clasped my hands in front of me. “How would you like to begin, sir?”

I watched as he methodically picked up his work, organized the papers into a folder, and set everything in the drawer on the bedside table. “You can start by getting me out of this god-damned bed,” he growled.

I didn’t say anything about the obvious fact that he could have gotten himself out of bed at any time if he had truly put his mind to it. “Perhaps I can grab your clothes for you? Most people find it easier to dress themselves while they are still in bed.”

“Yes. That is a good idea. If you don’t mind going into the closet... grey slacks, white shirt, underwear in the top drawer...” I moved around the room and brought him the clothes he had requested. I tried not to think about how strangely intimate it was to be digging around in a man's underwear drawer.

“If your handrails are strong enough, you may find it easier to have them up so you can use them for leverage,” I suggested, helping him to lock the rails into place. If he expected me to dress him like a doll, I didn’t. I walked him through doing most of the motions while I watched him with an assessing gaze. “It seems to me that the hardest part for you is going to be reaching your feet. You are pretty stiff. But we can work on that when we do your physical therapy. What time do you normally work on that?”

“After lunch,” he grumbled as he worked on buttoning up his shirt.

“Great, don’t forget to print out the exercises from your file.” I adjusted the foot pedals on the wheelchair and waited for him to swing his legs over the side. “First step,” I handed him the controls to the bed. “Lower yourself all the way down.”

He took the controls and glared at me. “Why are you always smiling?”

My mouth stretched wider, “I’m happy to be alive.” I raised a cheeky eyebrow at him. “Why are you always frowning?”

He frowned deeper. “I do not always frown. It's just that I find your constant, fake cheerfulness to be incredibly annoying.”

I handed him the belt and the slide board. “Who said it's fake?”

He looped the belt around his waist and then tried to position the board. “No one can be happy all the time.”

I sobered up a little bit as I adjusted the board to make sure it was stable between the bed and the chair. “That's true. Turn your feet out a little more. And on three... one, two, three...” This time I did not pull the belt, I only held it to keep it steady. He did 99% of the work himself. He had a surprised look on his face as he tipped over on his hip and pulled the board out from under his body, and then pushed himself back into a comfortable place.

“Now, double check your clothes. Straighten your pant-legs, make sure there are no creases or wrinkles under your thighs. You may not feel them, but they will still rub and can cause discomfort or even sores later.”

“That was...” the man brushed his hands down his legs, and adjusted his feet slightly on the pedals. His eyebrows knit together as though he wasn’t quite sure what words to use. “Okay,” he finally said, straightening himself and squaring his shoulders. “I can take it from here. I’ll meet you at breakfast, 8:30 sharp.” He squinted at me. “Don’t be late.”

I sniffed. “I am never late.” An impish smile crept back over my features. “I’m also never early.” I winked at him and let myself back out of the bedroom.

KAMERON

I shook my head as I watched her go. I wanted to be annoyed with her, but I found it was kind of hard to stay irritated. I checked my watch and whistled. She had gotten me dressed and out of bed in record time. No, I took that back, I had gotten myself dressed and out of bed. She’d been more like a coach giving me the plays. But a damn good coach. The feeling I had when I slid cleanly into the chair was like... hitting the sweet spot on a golf swing. It just felt... I didn’t want to say it felt “right”, because nothing would ever feel right about being in a wheelchair. But it also didn’t feel scary or awkward.

I brushed my teeth and combed my hair, and then drove myself into the office. Paul was there waiting, fresh suit, white gloves, hands clasped behind his back, just waiting to receive his directions. “Good morning, Mr. Greene.”

“Morning Paul.”

“You look... refreshed this morning.”

“Thanks. I slept well.” That was true. I’d slept longer and deeper than I had since the accident, without taking any sedatives. “Uh, I have a request.”

“Of course, Sir, how may I be of assistance?”

“Kindly supply Miss Clarke with an iron.”

The old man blinked, “There is already an iron and ironing board in the closet.”

“Oh,” I positioned myself behind the desk. “Then perhaps she just needs to be shown where they are located.”

“Yes, I will do that.” He tugged slightly at his lapels. “Anything else sir?”

“Yes. Make sure the gym is ready for us after lunch... fresh towels, water...”

“I will make sure it is fully stocked.”

I switched on my computer, and started by printing the exercises the physical therapist from the hospital had recommended. For the first time in a long time, I felt a small ray of hope. I might never walk again, but maybe life could get better.